HEARTBEAT 


STACY  AUMONIER 


HEARTBEAT 


HEARTBEAT 


BY 
STACY    AUMONIER 

Author  of  "Just  Outside",    "The  Querrils' 
"One  After  Another",  etc. 


BONI   AND    LIVERIGHT 

Publishers  New  York 


Copyright,  1922,  by 

BONI  AND  LlVERIGHT,  INC. 

Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America. 


CONTENTS 

Book      I.  Diastole 7 

Book   II.   Systole 73 

Book  III.  Diastole J93 


2043370 


BOOK  I. 
DIASTOLE 


BOOK  I— DIASTOLE. 
I 

OUTSIDE  the  window  a  starling  uttered  a  long 
deep  note,  then  fluttered  away.  In  the  twilight  of 
her  mind  some  chord  of  gratitude  responded.  She 
was  conscious  of  the  pleasant  sense  of  delightful 
coming  things.  .  .  .  Something  tremendous  and 
moving  occuring  deep  down  within  herself,  and  she 
enjoying  the  cosy  contemplation  of  it.  They  say 
this  is  the  hour  when  people  usually  choose  to  die, 
when  the  vitality  is  at  its  lowest;  perhaps  it  is  only 
shifting  from  one  plane  to  another.  The  vitality  of 
Barbara  was  certainly  very  pronounced,  long  be- 
fore it  shifted  to  the  plane  of  actual  consciousness. 
Eich  and  full  were  the  anticipations  and  visions 
which  crowded  upon  her.  When  the  daylight  came, 
and  she  had  washed  and  dressed  and  gone  out  into 
the  sun,  you  could  see  the  reflection  of  them  in  those 
profoundly  questioning,  profoundly  vivid  eyes.  The 
young  are  so  closely  in  touch  with  their  inner  selves 
that  it  is  only  the  external  things  they  question,  the 
things  which  threaten  to  re-act  upon  themselves,  to 
harden  them. 

The  starling  did  not  come  again ;  doubtless  he  had 
other  sleepers  to  warn  of  the  miracle  of  the  sun's 
approach,  and  they  in  the  exact  measure  of  their 
true  or  false  visions  would  welcome  or  execrate  him. 
Her  father,  that  man  of  almost  unfathomable  dign- 


8  HEARTBEAT 

ity,  the  holder  of  high  office  under  the  Crown — how 
would  the  warning  of  the  starling  affect  him?.  .  . 
Barbara  was  too  far  away  to  concern  herself  with 
such  an  imponderable  question.  She  had  the  genius 
of  happiness. 

Several  hours  elapsed  before  the  chain  of  visions 
snapped  abruptly,  caused  by  a  maid  opening  the 
door  quietly.  She  had  come  to  awaken  the  young 
mistress.  In  a  flash  Barbara  was  awake  in  every 
living  tissue.  A  crowd  of  definite  facts  leapt  to  the 
fore-front  of  her  mind.  They  took  somewhat  this 
order:  Yesterday  had  been  her  twentieth  birthday. 
It  was  over,  but  there  were  crowds  of  things  to  look 
forward  to.  Billy  Hamaton  and  the  Stradling  girls 
were  coming  to  spend  the  day.  Daddy  was  going  to 
town  after  breakfast,  and  wouldn't  be  back  for  a 
week.  She  had  a  pony,  a  real  live  pony  of  her  own, 
given  her  by  her  father  yesterday.  Its  name  was 
Tarbrush.  These  thoughts  crowded  upon  each  other 
while  she  was  speaking. 

"Good  morning,  Sally." 

"Good  morning,  miss." 

"Is  it  going  to  be  fine,  Sally?" 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  say,  miss.  Ij;'s  all  right  at 
present — a  bit  misty." 

Sally  was  a  born  pessimist.  She  could  always 
find  a  cloud  or  a  mist  about  somewhere.  "When  she 
had  retired,  Barbara  assured  herself  with  regard 
to  the  dubious  weather  forecast,  by  leaning  out  of 
the  window  in  her  nightdress.  She  knew  by  experi- 
ence that  it  was  the  kind  of  day  likely  to  be  fine.  A 
slow-moving  day,  with  a  thin  white  mist  that  would 
lift  later,  and  leave  a  scorching  sun  to  do  its  worst. 
Poor  Daddy!  "What  a  curious  idea  for  Parliament 


DIASTOLE  9 

to  sit  in  August,  when  all  the  schools  and  colleges 
and  everything  else  of  the  kind  were  shut!  Surely 
those  old  gentlemen,  who  were  mostly  like  her 
father,  well-to-do,  comfort-loving  old  gentlemen, 
could  make  what  times  they  liked !  If  I  was  Parlia- 
ment I  should  break  up  in  early  July,  she  thought. 
And  then — well,  after  all,  July  is  very  jolly,  and  so 
is  June,  and  May.  Why  not  sit  in  the  winter  when 
it's  wet  and  foggy?  How  jolly  the  lavender  smelt 
in  the  bed  beneath  her  window,  and — yes,  there  was 
Beal  already  rolling  the  tennis-lawn  while  the  dew 
was  upon  it.  ... 

n. 

THERE  was  something  about  the  tenuous  lines  of  the 
girl's  body  as  she  darted  about  the  room — imma- 
ture, like  the  quivering  bud  of  a  plant  that  has 
never  seen  the  sun  except  through  glass.  Her  move- 
ments were  eager  and  vital  .  .  .  epicene,  in- 
deed almost  boyish.  She  might  have  been  a  boy  of 
seventeen  rather  than  a  girl  of  twenty.  Even  the 
face  was  boyish,  a  pretty,  effeminate  boy.  Her  dark 
hair  was  caught  tight  back  from  the  forehead  and 
hung  in  a  long  plait  down  her  back.  The  business 
of  bathing,  undoing  the  plait,  brushing  out  the  hair, 
donning  a  rather  shapeless  print  frock,  was  all 
done  in  the  manner  of  a  boy  late  for  school.  Some 
of  the  boyishness  may  have  been  due  to  the  fact  that 
in  her  curiously  detached  life  she  had  many  people 
to  spoil  her  and  no  one  to  spoil. 

She  was  her  own  mother,  and  sister,  and  brother. 
Her  father  was  so  much  away.  Mrs.  Tollboy,  the 
housekeeper,  and  Miss  Eidde,  her  tutor,  were  kind- 


10  HEARTBEAT 

ness  itself,  but  for  neither  of  them  had  she  any  deep 
affection.  She  lived  for  herself.  She  had  no  recol- 
lection of  her  mother  at  all;  neither  did  her  father 
ever  mention  her. 

Between  her  father  and  herself  there  were 
strange  little  chasms  of  reserve.  Many  years  pre- 
viously, when  quite  a  little  girl,  she  had  been  taken 
by  Miss  Ridde  to  the  House  of  Commons  to  hear 
her  father  speak.  He  was  a  very  important  man. 
Miss  Bldde  said  he  was  a  Chancellor,  whatever  that 
was.  He  had  charge  of  all  the  money  in  the  coun- 
try— millions  and  millions.  The  knowledge  had  im- 
pressed her  enormously.  She  deducted  the  fact 
that  if  he  had  charge  of  all  the  money  in  the  country 
he  must  be  the  one  man  that  everybody  trusted 
most.  If  he  had  millions  and  millions  to  look  after, 
it  would  be  so  easy  to  help  himself  to  a  little — say, 
a  pound,  or  perhaps  half-a-crown.  No  one  could 
surely  ever  find  out.  She  had  no  strong  moral  bias 
about  these  things.  She  had  been  brought  up  to 
take  anything  she  wanted. 

But  if  the  knowledge  of  his  position  and  power 
impressed  her,  the  sight  of  him  in  the  House  was  a 
thing  she  would  never  forget.  The  memory  of  it 
was  one  of  the  causes  of  the  little  chasms.  There 
were  rows  and  rows  of  middle-aged  and  elderly  men 
solemnly  listening  to  her  father  as  he  stood  by  a 
table,  holding  a  sheaf  of  papers  in  his  hand.  He 
looked  exactly  the  same  as  he  did  at  home.  It  was 
the  setting  which  made  him  appear  more  impres- 
sive. A  loose,  badly  fitting  frock-coat  hung  in  pen- 
dulous masses  about  his  vast  person;  chains  and 
signets  dangled  between  the  crevices  in  his  waist- 
coat. His  heavy,  melancholy  face,  with  the  deep 


DIASTOLE  11 

bags  beneath  the  eyes,  and  the  great  dome  of  fore- 
head, gave  an  atmosphere  of  complete  immersion 
in  his  subject,  of  complete  aloofness  from  his  sur- 
roundings. 

The  deep  boom  of  his  tired  voice  filled  the  great 
hall  with  effortless  ease  as  he  developed  the  scheme 
of  his  ponderous  economies.  Sometimes  a  ripple 
of  applause  would  run  round  the  hall;  at  other 
times  from  odd  corners  would  come  murmurs  of 
dissent;  but  he  seemed  to  be  quite  unconscious  of 
either  interruption.  Once  a  thick-set  man  with  a 
grey  beard  addressed  a  long  remark  to  him  in  a 
strident  voice.  Her  father  placed  one  of  his  large 
fat  fingers  on  a  certain  place  on  the  sheet  of  notes 
before  him,  and  turned  his  gloomy  face  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  speaker.  His  face  expressed  neither  an- 
noyance nor  approval.  He  was  apparently  care- 
fully weighing  the  value  of  the  interruption.  Satis- 
fying himself  that  the  remark  was  not  "germane 
to  the  subject,"  he  continued  his  discourse  in  the 
same  imperturbable  accents.  At  moments  he  be- 
came husky  and  wheezy,  and  he  blew  his  nose  in  a 
languid  tornado  of  sound,  in  identically  the  same 
way  she  had  seen  him  do  in  the  dining-room  at  home 
after  breakfast.  The  speech  seemed  interminable, 
and  quite  incomprehensible.  Occasionally  he  would 
put  the  papers  down  and,  leaning  heavily  with  one 
hand  on  the  table  in  front  of  him  and  the  other 
thrust  into  the  sleeve-opening  of  his  waistcoat,  he 
would  wander  off  into  a  maze  of  figures,  and  aver- 
ages, and  percentages,  all  quoted  from  memory. 

Barbara  felt  a  great  desire  to  call  out:  "That  is 
my  father!"  but  she  dreaded  the  vision  of  all  those 
bald-headed  and  solemn-faced  men  looking  up  at 


12  HEARTBEAT 

her.  It  was  not  exactly  pride  she  felt,  but  an  in- 
stinct to  enlarge  the  claims  of  her  possessive  sense. 

m 

CUEIOUSLY  enough,  this  experience  did  not  tend  to 
augment  her  sympathy  with  him.  At  the  time  he 
appeared  sufficiently  impressive,  but  afterwards, 
when  she  beheld  him  in  their  own  home  behaving 
in  the  same  way,  talking  to  the  same  kind  of  men  on 
the  same  or  similar  themes,  she  could  not  shake  off 
the  effect  of  some  overpowering  and  passionless 
fate.  In  his  attitude  towards  her  he  expressed  an 
enveloping  affection,  within  the  confines  of  an  elab- 
orately thought-out  code.  She  knew  that  he  took 
infinite  pains  working  out  the  meticulous  program 
of  her  welfare.  He  looked  far  ahead,  and  al- 
lowed for  every  conceivable  eventuality.  He  pro- 
tected her  from  the  buffets  of  worldly  friction  by  a 
wide  fortification  of  considered  training  and  physical 
detachment — High  Barrow,  where  they  lived,  wag 
thirty  miles  from  London;  their  neighbours  were 
families  of  gentle  birth  and  culture.  He  kissed  her 
night  and  morning.  He  called  her  brief,  endearing 
names.  He  humoured  her  follies  and  her  wilfulness. 
In  spite  of  this,  she  did  not  know  her  father  at  all. 
She  doubted  whether  anyone  knew  him.  He  never 
upbraided  or  scolded  her;  and  yet  at  times  he  had 
a  way  of  regarding  her  through  half -closed  eyes,  as 
though  he  had  observed  her  for  the  first  time,  and 
was  considering  whether  she  herself  was  really 
"germane  to  the  subject."  The  sensation  made 
her  feel  like  an  interrupter  who:  has  hazarded  a 
foolish  remark. 

It  was  probably  partly  due  to  this  attitude  and 


DIASTOLE  13 

partly  to  her  environment  that  at  the  age  of  twenty 
she  was  like  a  boy  of  seventeen,  a  rather  selfish, 
very  wilful,  impressionable,  not  very  well-informed 
schoolboy.  For  it  must  be  observed  that  as  an  in- 
structress Miss  Eidde  was  not  very  convincing. 
Thomas  Power scourt's  instructions  to  her  had  been 
to  "  teach  his  daughter  all  the  elementary  subjects, 
but  under  no  circumstances  to  teach  her  music,  or 
to  allow  her  to  attend  concerts  or  theatres." 

As  Miss  Ridde  knew  no  music  and  her  knowledge 
was  essentially  elementary,  she  found  no  difficulty 
in  following  these  instructions.  She  often  cogitated 
upon  the  queer  embargo  upon  music  and  drama, 
but  it  was  not  her  business  to  question.  The  situ- 
ation was  a  well-paid  sinecure,  and,  except  for  wil- 
ful moods,  Barbara  was  a  pleasant  companion,  one 
who  preferred  games  and  amusement  to  work.  In 
any  dispute  Miss  Eidde  always  gave  in  to  her  pupil. 
She  had  not  attempted  to  give  her  lessons  for  years. 
Occasionally  they  read  something  together,  or  dis- 
cussed safe  subjects  in  a  pleasant,  tentative  way. 
Miss  Ridde  was  a  very  useful  person.  She  had 
quite  a  genius  for  self-effacement. 

The  character  of  Mrs.  Tollboy  was  more  asser- 
tive, but  it  was  one  of  her  proudest  boasts  that ' '  she 
knew  her  place. ' '  Her  respect  for  Thomas  Powers- 
court  amounted  to  reverential  awe,  and  Barbara 
was  his  daughter. 

Her  aunts,  Jenny  and  Laura,  paid  fugitive  visits. 
They,  too,  were  under  the  spell  of  their  brother's 
astounding  reputation,  and  they  appeared  to  adopt 
towards  her  a  similar  attitude  of  reserve.  She  felt 
that  she  would  never  get  to  know  them.  Both 
rather  fragile  old  ladies,  they  made  no  attempt  to 


14  HEARTBEAT 

influence  or  interfere  with  her  way  of  life.  And  the 
girl  had  a  great  capacity  for  living.  She  crowded 
her  day  with  pleasant  occupations,  riding,  walking, 
games,  lying  in  the  sun,  dreaming.  She  quickly 
acquired  the  social  habit.  Among  the  numerous 
friends  who  lived  near  by  she  soon  detected  a  kind 
of  herd-instinct  for  doing  a  certain  thing  in  a  cer- 
tain way,  and  she  herself  acquired  this  habit.  There 
was  a  strong  convention  of  thought  and  behaviour 
never  openly  acknowledged,  but  nevertheless  (re- 
lentless. In  these  circles  she  even  found  the  figure 
of  her  father,  in  spite  of  his  distinguished'  at- 
tributes, somewhat  gauche.  He  was  not  assimilable. 
These  people  visited  him,  and  on  occasions  he  visit- 
ed them ;  but  in  either  case  the  visit  was  a  Dead-Sea- 
fruit  adventure.  His  manners  were  courteous,  and 
his  conversation  irreproachably  correct,  intelligent ; 
but  he  had  that  faculty  of  listening  without  hearing, 
and  of  talking  as  though  his  mind  were  actively  en- 
gaged elsewhere. 

In  spite  of  a  certain  ingrained  affection  for  her 
father,  therefore,  it  was  always  with  a  slight  feel- 
ing of  relief  that  she  heard,  as  on  this  morning,  that 
he  was  going  away.  His  presence  acted  more  as  a 
check  upon  her  freedom  of  thought  than  on  her  free- 
dom of  action.  When  at  home  he  left  her  entirely 
to  her  own  devices,  but  she  could  not  avoid  the  per- 
vading consciousness  of  his  unexpressed  critical 
perceptions.  Sometimes  she  wished  he  would  get 
angry  with  her,  order  her  to  do  this  or  that,  display 
some  evidence  or  disapproval  of  her  numerous  de- 
linquencies. His  passivity  dulled  the  flow  of  her 
quickly-moving  thoughts.  Like  all  young  and  healthy 
people,  she  conceived!  happiness  an  affair  of 


DIASTOLE  15 

escaping  from  the  actuality  of  her  environment.  She 
saw  herself  objectively,  a  creature  participating  in 
the  delights  of  a  thousand  romantic  episodes,  her 
mind  coloured  by  the  chromatic  tissues  of  fiction. 
She  and  Miss  Bidde  read  a  great  deal  of  fiction — 
Dumas  and  Charles  Reade,  Victor  Hugo,  Stevenson, 
Daudet  and  Thackeray.  Her  tendencies  were  not 
neurotic.  Love  with  her  was  essentially  an  affair 
of  chivalry,  brave  deeds  and  self-sacrifice.  Her 
tastes  were  masculine.  Stevenson's  pirates  and 
Dumas'  adventurers  meant  more  to  her  than  erotic 
imaginings.  She  admired  those  aristocratic  women 
who  overthrew  kings  and  cardinals  and  married 
some  simple  fellow  in  the  end.  At  the  back  of  it  all 
there  lurked  the  ever-recurring  impulse  to  probe 
experience,  to  thrill  with  the  responsibility  of  quick 
decision;  above  all,  to  have  a  good  time.  She  was 
not  unaware  of  the  good  times  to  be  had  surrep- 
tiously  in  her  father's  house.  Sometimes  she  felt 
an  interloper,  as  though  she  were  there  under  false 
pretences. 

IV. 

HER  father  was  eating  kidneys  and  bacon — a  fa- 
vourite dish.  She  kissed  him  lightly  on  the  brow, 
and  he  wiped  his  mouth  with  his  napkin,  mumbling : 

1 1  Well,  my  dear " 

On  the  other  side  of  the  table  was  a  young  secre- 
tary, a  beautifully  groomed,  rather  supercilious 
young  man,  who  said  alertly : 

"May  I  fetch  you  something,  Miss  Powerscourtf  " 

She  said:  "Yes,  you  can,  please,  Mr.  Thornley. 
I'll  have  some  bacon — no  kidneys." 

It  gave  her  a  sense  of  satisfaction  to  be  waited 
on  by  this  well-dressed  person.  Whilst  he  dived 


16  HEARTBEAT 

about  amongst  the  silver  dishes  on  the  side  table, 
she  said: 

"All  right  after  last  night's  depravity,  Dad!" 

'  *  Yes,  my  dear,    And  you  f ' ' 

She  was  all  right,  of  course.  But  she  had  asked 
the  question  because  she  could  see  that  her  father 
wasn't.  He  ought  not  to  be  eating  kidneys  and 
bacon  now.  It  was  a  very  curious  thing  about  her 
father.  In  spite  of  his  aloofness  from  the  ordinary 
distractions  of  social  life,  he  was  peculiarly  attached 
to  the  good  things  of  the  table.  He  drank  moder- 
ately, but  he  ate  to  excess.  All  the  doctors  told  him 
the  same  thing.  He  was  always  being  unwell,  and 
then  he  liked  to  visit  well-known  specialists.  He 
would  listen  absorbedly  to  what  they  told  him.  He 
would  order  an  array  of  bottles  of  medicine.  When 
they  came  he  would  hold  them  up  to  the  light  and 
examine  them.  Sometimes  he  would  take  a  cork 
out  and  smell  the  medicine,  but  he  never  drank  it. 
Neither  did  he  ever  take  the  doctor's  advice.  He 
went  on  just  the  same  as  usual.  But  the  visit  seemed 
to  give  him  some  kind  of  satisfaction.  When  on 
occasions  Barbara  remonstrated  with  him  about  not 
obeying  the  doctor's  orders,  he  would  look  at  her 
with  mild  surprise,  and  murmur  a  dim  acquiescence. 
It  was  as  though  he  simply  had  not  the  power  to 
resist.  It  seemed  strange  that  a  man  who  had  shown 
such  strength  of  character  in  his  public  life,  and 
was  adamant  about  the  nation  doing  the  wise  thing 
for  itself,  could  not  resist  the  oleaginous  appeal  of 
a  slice  of  fried  ham. 

V. 

CICELY  and  Jean  Stradling  were  her  chief  fellow- 
conspirators  in  this  enterprise  of  robbing  the  or- 


DIASTOLE  17 

chard  of  experience  of  its  choicest  fruit.  Both 
pretty,  companionable  girls  about  her  own  age, 
daughters  of  a  wealthy  Justice  of  the  Peace,  incor- 
rigibly high-spirited,  quick  and  clever,  they  brought 
her  the  satisfying  friction  of  social  contact,  the  nar- 
cotic of  adulation.  She  revelled  in  their  society, 
adored,  schwarmed,  and  smothered  them  with  em- 
braces, but,  as  there  was  nothing  she  could  give 
them,  they  touched  her  less  profoundly  than  she 
imagined.  It  !was  with  them,  however,  that  she 
formed  the  great  conspiracy.  It  came  about  through 
an  occurrence  at  their  house  which  had  happened 
when  she  was  seventeen. 

She  had  been  in  a  sullen  mood  one  day,  unreason- 
able and  quarrelsome.  It  was  July,  and  the  air 
was  humid  and  enervating.  She  had  quarrelled 
with  Mrs.  Tollboy  and  been  very  rude  to  Miss 
Ridde,  and,  to  cap  all,  she  felt  that  the  Stradling 
girls  didn't  love  her.  They  had  some  sort  of  party 
on,  and  they  hadn't  asked  her,  although  their  gar- 
dens adjoined.  She  took  a  book,  and  went  and  lay 
under  the  mulberry  tree.  But  even  Dumas  bored 
her  on  this  sultry  afternoon.  She  wandered  further 
afield.  On  the  other  side  of  the  hedge  was  a  green 
slope  fringed  by  a  clump  of  larch  trees.  Thither 
she  drifted,  and  stretched  herself  luxuriously  under 
their  shade.  A  little  later  there  was  a  sound  of 
laughter.  Cicely  and  Jean  and  the  boy,  Billy  Ham- 
aton,  came  out  into  the  Stradlings'  garden.  Their 
high-spirited  fooling  annoyed  her  more  than  ever, 
and  she  was  about  to  vanish  further  amongst  the 
trees  when  she  heard  one  of  them  say : 

" Hullo!  there's  Barbara!" 

She  could  not  pretend  she  was  not  there  when 


18  1  HEARTBEAT 

they  called  to  her.  Cicely  and  Jean  were  perfectly 
friendly.  It  was  probably  only  by  chance  that  they 
had  not  asked  her  in.  Jean  cried  out : 
"Oh,  do  come  in,  Barbara.  We're  having  a  rag." 
She  did  not  want  to  go.  She  was  not  in  the  mood, 
and  she  was  feeling  slightly  aggrieved.  Neverthe- 
less she  answered  politely  enough,  and  in  a  few 
minutes'  time  found  herself  wandering  on  the 
Stradlings'  lawn.  One  or  two  elderly  people  came 
out  through  the  French  windows  and  talked  to- 
gether in  groups.  No  one  was  particularly  interested 
in  Barbara.  She  sat  on  a  deck  chair  on  the  edge 
of  the  lawn.  The  boy  wanted  to  talk  to  her,  but 
Cicely  and  Jean  were  in  one  of  their  giggling  moods, 
and  they  dragged  him  to  the  croquet-lawn,  where  a 
game  of  clock  golf  was  in  progress.  And  then  as 
she  sat  there  in  idle  dejection,  there  occurred  to  her 
one  of  those  little  experiences  which  sometimes 
affect  one's  whole  life.  Through  the  open  doors 
came  the  sound  of  a  song.  A  French  girl  was  sing- 
ing "La  Pauvre  Innocente."  As  she  listened  to  the 
notes  of  this  delightful  song,  something  stirred 
within  her.  Her  whole  nature  responded  to  the 
melodic  appeal.  Deep,  inexplicable  yearnings  found 
their  partial  solution.  She  felt  intensely  happy 
.  '  .  .  elated.  She  dimly  realised  that  during 
all  these  years  one  side  of  her  nature  had  been 
starved.  And  it  was  her  father  who  was  responsi- 
ble. He  had  lavished  upon  her  every  luxury  and 
comfort  except  the  one  thing  she  needed  most  pro- 
foundly. She  began  to  wonder  what  was  the  secret 
of  this  deprivation.  Why?  Why  this  terrible  em- 
bargo? She  was  not  conscious  of  her  loss  till  that 
moment,  for  the  reason  that  she  had  never  before 


DIASTOLE  19 

heard  music  of  good  enough  quality  to  be  moved  by 
it.  But  on  that  afternoon  she  became  abruptly 
aware  that  it  was  a  necessity  of  existence.  When 
the  song  was  finished  her  eyes  glowed  brightly,  her 
breath  came  in  little  stabs.  She  arose  and  walked 
away  quickly  into  the  woods,  her  senses  tingling 
with  the  thrill  of  her  experience. 

When  the  party  was  over  she  went  back  and  visited 
Cicely  and  Jean.  She  had  forgiven  them  for 
their  haphazard  invitation.  She  was  affectionate 
and  discursive ;  she  told  them  the  exact  truth  of  her 
experience.  In  her  father's  house  there'  was  no 
piano  at  all,  no  musical  instrument  of  any  kind; 
music  was  forbidden. 

"I  will  never  rest,"  she  concluded,  "till  I  can 
sing  like  that  girl — or  better." 

Cicely  and  Jean  were  appropriately  sympathetic. 
Jean  was  having  music  lessons  herself  from  a  Miss 
Trent,  who  came  to  her  once  a  week.  Why  should 
Barbara  not  come  across  and  have  a  lesson  at  the 
same  time?  She  could  use  their  piano  whenever 
she  liked.  But  surely,  if  her  father  were  approach- 
ed properly,  he  would  only  be  too  delighted — such 
a  kind,  generous,  easy-going  man.  Well,  Barbara 
would  make  one  attempt,  but  she  had  an  ominous 
presentiment  of  the  result. 

And  she  was  right.  He  listened  puffily  to  her  ap- 
peal, moved  into  the  shadow  of  the  window  recess, 
unnerved  her  with  the  implication  of  a  long,  critical 
silence,  then  boomed  in  the  impersonal  voice  of  an 
oracle  echoing  through  the  hollow  gloom  of  a  for- 
gotten temple: 

"No;  I  don't  wish  you  to  learn  music.  Why  not 
paint  flowers?" 


20  HEARTBEAT 

There  was  something  thin,  almost  callous,  in  this 
latter  phrase.  Paint  flowers !  Like  the  oracle,  too, 
it  carried  with  it  the  weight  of  ambiguity.  What 
did  he  mean?  Why  should  she  paint  flowers?  What 
kind  of  spiritual  substitute  was  this?  It  was  like 
offering  a  nosegay  to  a  tiger,  and  the  man  was  dis- 
mally aware  of  it.  It  was  the  idle,  evasive  remark 
of  a  prisoner  fencing  for  time. 

Barbara  would  not  paint  flowers ;  she  would  learn 
to  sing. 

VI. 

THAT  was  four  years  ago.  During  those  four  years 
she  had  worked  secretly  at  the  piano,  and  at  sing- 
ing. She  was  no  musical  genius,  but  she  had  a 
clear,  light  soprano  voice,  a  good  sense  of  rhythm, 
an  adequate  technique  for  simple,  melodious  bal- 
lads. She  could  now  sing  "La  Pauvre  Innocente" 
as  well  as  the  girl  who  inspired  her  to  do  it.  It  had 
been  a  great  struggle  to  conceal  her  little  accom- 
plishment from  her  father.  It  was  such  a  temp- 
tation to  sing  about  the  house,  such  a  necessity  to 
sing  in  the  bath-room.  But  on  those  occasions, 
when  some  phrase  escaped  her,  she  had  always  re- 
pented it.  He  would  speak  sharply  and  angrily  to 
her,  and  to  this  she  was  not  accustomed.  Once  he 
had  surprised  her  in  the  garden,  and  exclaimed : 

"What  is  that  song?    Where  did  you  learn  it?" 

She  had  replied  perfunctorily : 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.    I  heard  someone  singing  it." 

She  was  frightened  by  him,  frightened  by  his  sil- 
ences and  the  heavy  weight  of  years  which  lay  be- 
tween them.  And  something  in  her  had  hardened 
a  little.  The  deception  over  the  singing  bred  other 


DIASTOLE  21 

little  deceptions.  As  she  developed,  some  inner 
voice  kept  repeating:  "A  girl  has  got  to  look  after 
herself.  I'm  not  going  to  be  browbeaten." 

As  she  could  not  cope  with  him  directly  she  em- 
played  other  methods.  She  went  to  concerts 
and  theatres,  and  made  up  lies  to  account  for  her 
absence.  She  learned  to  flirt.  It  was  Billy  Hamaton 
who  first  initiated  her  into  this  intriguing  form  of 
pastime;  and  she  enjoyed  it  enormously,  until  she 
found,  one  day,  that  Billy  Hamaton  was  no  longer 
flirting.  The  boy  was  in  dead  earnest.  It  was  very 
disconcerting,  and  dangerous,  and — well,  what  does 
a  girl  do  in  a  case  like  that?  It  was  a  great  pity;  it 
would  spoil  everything;  and  yet — there  was  a  grim 
joy  in  adventure  behind  her  father's  back. 

Once  she  had  been  very  ill:  a  fever  which  lasted 
several  weeks.  Her  father  had  been  alarmed.  She 
knew  this  by  his  restless  movements  and  furtive 
visits.  Old  Dr.  James,  the  local  practitioner,  had 
been  in  daily  attendance.  One  day  he  brought  an- 
other doctor,  older  than  himself,  a  great  specialist 
from  London.  She  had  overheard  them  whispering 
together  when  she  was  supposed  to  be  sleeping.  One 
had  said: 

"By  Jove!  yes,  she's  the  spit  and  image  of 
Kitty." 

"Did  you  know  her?"  asked  the  other. 

"Well  enough.  I  don't  envy  the  child  her  herit- 
age." 

They  had  moved  away,  whispering  interestedly. 

Oh,  so  that  was  it !  Her  mother's  name  was  Kitty, 
and  she  had  left  an  unhappy  heritage.  Barbara 
stored  the  memory  of  this  incident  in  her  mind. 
Poor  mother!  Where  was  she?  What  had  she  done? 


22  HEARTBEAT 

Throughout  the  house  there  was  no  portrait  of  her, 
no  memento,  nothing  to  indicate  that  a  woman  had 
ever  been  its  mistress.  She  had  been  told  that  her 
mother  died  when  she  herself  was  a  baby,  but  no- 
thing else  had  been  said  at  all  about  her. 

Sometimes  the  house  appeared  a  playground  of 
distressing  memories — almost  insupportable.  Well, 
there  it  was!  Her  secret  music  absorbed  her,  and 
she  was  not  the  kind  to  indulge  in  maudlin  retro- 
spection. The  past  was  dead:  young  people  were 
calling  to  her  in  the  sunlit  garden.  The  beautiful 
secretary  was  stuffing  papers  into  an  attache  case, 
her  father  was  mumbling : 

"Well,  my  dear,  look  after  yourself!" 
The  great  car  purred  at  the  door  with  a  noise 
like  the  stomach-rumbles  of  an  animal  at  feeding- 
time.  Mrs.  Tollboy  was  very  much  in  evidence. 
The  last  instructions  were  given.  The  car  devoured 
its  victims,  and  with  a  satisfied  toot  as  it  rounded 
the  drive  glided  away  in  the  silence  of  repletion. 
Phew !  what  a  relief !  A  week  of  freedom,  and  fun, 
and  .  .  .  music. 

VII. 

BILLY  HAMATON  and  the  Stradling  girls  were  al- 
ready there,  pink-coloured  and  bright-eyed,  playing 
an  improvised  game  with  a  stick  and  a  straw  basket 
on  the  upper  lawn. 

"You  must  come  and  see  the  pony,"  she  yelled. 

Tarbrush  was  certainly  an  engaging  little  beast, 
with  a  shiny  mane,  a  long  black  tail,  and  a  great 
sense  of  humour.  He  gave  the  impression  that  he 
was  used  to  children  and  young  people  and  their 
ways,  and  he  preferred  them  genteel  and  well- 


DIASTOLE  23 

dressed.  For  the  stable-boy  he  showed  a  profound 
contempt,  but  he  allowed  Barbara  to  ride  him  bare- 
back up  and  down  the  yard.  He  appeared  to  say: 

"This  is  quite  all  right.  This  is  my  mistress. 
She  has  bought  and  paid  for  me,  and  I  was  very, 
very  expensive.  My  pedigree  would  make  you  sit 
up." 

He  allowed  himself  to  be  hugged,  and  called  a 
darling;  he  condescended  to  eat  handfuls  of  crisp 
white  sugar. 

They  then  went  down  to  the  little  stream  on  the 
other  side  of  the  coppice,  and  Billy  performed  im- 
pressive feats  of  leaping  by  the  aid  of  a  pole.  He  was 
agile  and  neatly-made ;  he  excelled  at  games  that  did 
not  require  great  strength  or  endurance.  They  lunch- 
ed under  the  mulberry  tree,  a  joyous  meal  of  pies  and 
fruit  and  lemonade.  The  afternoon  was  devoted  to 
tennis,  the  only  thing  they  did  that  day  that  was 
conducted  with  grim  earnestness.  Then  followed 
tea  at  the  Stradlings ',  with  large  iced  cakes,  endless 
if  not  very  profound  jokes,  joyous  banalities,  and 
laughter  all  the  time.  Oh,  it  was  great  fun;  the 
kind  of  day  that  brings  out  the  best  in  one.  They 
were  in  that  humour  when  everything  is  outrage- 
ously funny — the  angle  of  a  tea-cosy,  the  colour  of 
Billy's  socks,  an  inane  remark  about  cook's  young 
man — anything  and  everything.  Just  when  the 
progression  of  these  pleasantries  might  have  be- 
gun to  pall,  the  position  was  vitalised  by  an  unex- 
pected visitor.  At  the  very  sight  of  him  the  quar- 
tette screamed  with  laughter.  It  had  been  one  of 
the  assets  of  George  Champneys'  career  that  people 
laughed  directly  he  came  on  the  stage.  At  the  same 
time,  you  could  not  exactly  tell  why.  He  was  a  man 


24  HEARTBEAT 

between  forty  and  fifty,  with  a  droll,  fat,  clean- 
shaven face.  He  was  not  particularly  ugly,  certain- 
ly not  grotesque  but  he  exuded  a  kind  of  contag- 
ious appreciation  of  the  grotesque.  You  knew  that 
he  knew  that  you  knew  how  intensely  comic  some 
aspect  or  attitude  appeared  to  him.  He  had  you 
in  his  pocket,  as  it  were ;  and  so  must  it  always  be 
with  a  good  comedian.  After  meeting  the  outburst 
of  his  reception  with  an  appropriate  display  of 
facial  contortion,  he  exclaimed  dramatically: 

"This  won't  do,  old  boy,  you  know.  It  won't  do! 
It  won't  do !  It  won't  do ! " 

Now,  why  on  earth  was  that  funny?  Barbara 
laughed  till  the  tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks. 
He  then  turned  to  Cicely  and  Jean  and  said  quite 
simply: 

"Is  the  guv 'nor  out,  my  dears?" 

"Yes;  he's  up  in  town,  George." 

Barbara  whispered  to  Jean : 

"Who  is  he?" 

And  Jean  whispered  back: 

"Don't  you  know?  It's  George  Champneys.  He's 
head  of  the  Frolics — awful  clever.  Sends  compan- 
ies out.  You'd  love  him  on  the  stage." 

In  the  meantime  George  was  calling  Billy  "old 
boy,"  much  to  the  latter 's  delight.  Suddenly  he 
turned  to  Barbara  and  said : 

"Who  is  our  young  friend  here?" 

"This  is  Barbara  Powerscourt, "  said  Jean. 

George  took  Barbara's  hand  and  held  it.  Then 
he  searched  her  face  keenly  with  his  protruding  grey 
eyes,  and  suddenly  muttered  "Fine!"  There  was 
nothing  objectionable  or  over-familiar  in  the  way  he 
did  this.  Barbara  merely  felt  that  she  had  been 


DIASTOLE  25 

approved  of  by  a  friendly  and  critical  being,  and  she 
blushed  accordingly  with  extreme  pleasure.  She 
was  excited  moreover.  She  was  suddenly  in  touch 
with  the  sentient,  moving,  forbidden  world.  An 
actor! — indeed  a  famous  actor,  one  who  made  the 
multitude  kneel  to  him.  A  real  comedian!  What 
would  her  father  think?  Cicely  was  exclaiming: 

"Oh,  George,  do  tell  us  some  stories.'* 

And  Jean  was  clasping  her  hands  and  saying: 
"Yes,  do,  do!" 

"No,"  said  George;  "I  can't  tell  you  any  stories, 
but  I'll  give  you  an  imitation  of  the  Lub." 

" Whatever 's  the  Lub?" 

"Don't  you  know  the  Lub? — the  half-brother  to 
the  Chunt?  They  make  a  noise  like  this:  'F'rrh! 
F'rrh!'  You  feed  them  on  peaches  and  straw-hat 
dye.  Wonderful  old  sportsmen.  I  had  one  that 
died  of  tennis  elbow  at  the  age  of  ninety-seven.  Of 
course,  they  are  not  so  intelligent  as  the  stoofs — 
these  are  surprising  beasts.  As  far  as  I  know, 
there's  only  one  left,  and  that  belongs  to  a  tram- 
car  conductor  in  Manchester." 

He  leaned  towards  Barbara  and  said  very  earn- 
estly : 

"Do  you  know  that  the  Stoof  can  add  up  eight 
columns  of  figures  while  thinking  out  the  menu  for 
next  Monday  week's  breakfast?" 

George  Champneys  was  merely  adapting  him- 
self to  the  atmosphere  in  which  he  had  happened  to 
drift.  Young  people  were  food  and  wine  to  him. 
It  was  from  them  he  drew  the  spirit  of  spontaneous 
fooling  and  adapted  it  to  his  own  ends.  But  prob- 
ably those  burlesques  of  his,  which  were  famous 
throughout  the  country,  would  not  have  been  so 


26  HEARTBEAT 

good  had  it  not  been  that  in  the  presence  of  youth 
he  felt  not  only  gaiety,  but  a  deep  sense  of  bitter- 
ness a  kind  of  savage  hunger. 

He  fooled  to  some  purpose  on  that  afternoon; 
was  extremely  droll,  high-spirited,  in  his  heart  ut- 
terly lonely;  and  was  about  to  make  his  departure 
when  Jean  said : 

" Let's  make  Barbara  sing." 

The  making  of  Barbara  sing  was  a  protracted 
and  keenly  fought  struggle,  but  at  length  she  sat  at 
the  piano,  and  sang  "La  Pauvre  Irwocente." 

Oh,  la  pauvre  innocente!  Champneys  lay  back  in 
the  comfortable  Chesterfield,  and  his  grey  eyes  mel- 
lowed. There  was  something  clear-cut  and  incisive 
about  Barbara,  her  dark  hair  silhouetted  against 
a  malachite  damask  curtain.  Directly  she  began  to 
sing  she  became  immersed  in  her  job.  She  accom- 
panied herself  with  point  and  discretion.  Her  voice 
was  flexible  and  expressive.  By  Jove!  she  had 
everything  except  training.  George  could  see  exact- 
ly what  he  could  make  of  her.  She  would  make  a 
splendid  "Frolic,"  and  shqj  was  young,  young — 
ah!  so  wonderfully  young.  She  also  sang  "Le 
miracle  de  Sainte  Berthe"  and  a  little  song  by 
Strauss. 

He  was  solemn  when  he  rose  to  go.  He  took  her 
hand  and  smiled. 

"If  ever  you  want  a  job,  Barbara,  you  come  to 
me." 

That,  of  course,  was  another  enormous  joke! 
What  a  jolly  ripping  person  was  George  Champ- 
neys !  He  lighted  his  pipe,  gave  the  girls  a  friendly 
pat,  and  ambled  away. 


DIASTOLE  27 

vni. 

THE  day  was  beginning  to  draw  in.  Long  deep  shad- 
ows crept  across  the  lawns.  Bees  were  working 
overtime  among  the  lupins.  A  flock  of  rooks  cawed 
noisily  up  in  the  elms.  Everything  appeared  to  be- 
come accentuated  .  .  .  tense.  Oh,  how  vital 
and  moving  was  this  day  of  days!  Barbara  had 
never  been  so  happy,  never  so  in  touch  with  the  big 
moving  spectacle  of  life.  She,  she  was  the  pivot  of 
it  all.  She  saw  herself  the  heroine  of  breathless 
movements,  quickly  changing  and  developing.  The 
world  loved  her  and  wanted  her.  She  would  tri- 
umph and  succeed.  They  loved  her,  but  they  didn't 
know  how  much  she  had  to  give.  She  was  some- 
thing special ;  she  knew  that.  Restrictions  and  limit- 
ations which  applied  to  ordinary  humanity  did  not 
apply  to  her.  Up,  and  up,  and  up,  the  rest  worship- 
ping, and  she  wanting  to  be  so  kind.  Ah,  yes,  she 
would  always  be  that.  That  perhaps  was  the  great- 
est joy  of  all  ...  out  of  her  great  powers,  to 
give. 

Billy  was  looking  at  her  dolefully  and  saying,  "I 
shall  have  to  go. ' ' 

"Oh,  no,'*  she  cried,  "not  yet.  It's  too  lovely. 
Let's  climb  the  mulberry  tree  in  our  garden?" 

"It  makes  your  flannels  so  beastly  dirty,"  said 
Billy.  "Besides,  I  promised  the  mater  I'd  be  home 
at  seven." 

"Coward!" 

"I'm  not  a  coward.  Do  you  dare  me?" 

"Yes,  I  do.    I'll  climb  higher  than  you." 

"Oh,  Barbara,  don't  be  absurd.  You'll  tear  your 
frock."  This  frbm  Jean. 

"I've  had  enough  sports  to-day,"  echoed  Cicely. 


28  HEARTBEAT 

But  Barbara  was  already  through  the  gate  divid- 
ing the  gardens. 

"Come  on,  Billy;  I  challenge  you." 

Before  he  had  reached  the  tree,  Barbara  was 
swinging  on  the  first  branch.  It  was  a  very  old  tree, 
and  not  difficult  to  climb.  Up  and  up  she  went,  and 
where  she  went  Billy,  of  course,  had  to  follow.  She 
was  there  chasing  the  elf  of  adventure,  and  Billy 
was  there  to  show  that  he  was  not  going  to  be  beat- 
en by  a  girl.  Indeed,  he  knew  he  was  committed 
further  than  that,  for  when  Barbara  had  reached 
her  limit,  he  must — manlike — go  a  bit  further.  They 
panted  and  swung  and  hugged  the  thick  branches. 

"Now,"  said  Barbara,  at  last.  "This  is  my  fav- 
ourite spot.  Look;  you  can't  see  the  ground.  One 
might  be  miles  and  miles  up  in  the  sky." 

The  boy  pulled  himself  up  beside  her,  panting. 

"I  love  it  like  this,  when  you  float  in  a  pattern  of 
leaves  and  sky,  the  sun  dancing  through.  You  can 
imagine  there  is  no  earth  at  all,  nothing  below  you, 
only  this  going  on  till  you  reach  Heaven,  the  birds 
bringing  you  messages  now  and  then  from  the  peo- 
ple you  love.  It's  all  so  near,  so  near,  Billy." 

The  sun  made  patterns  on  his  jolly,  freckled  face. 
He  put  his  arm  round  her. 

"I  love  you,  Barbara." 

"Do  you,  Billy!" 

For  a  moment  she  was  sustained  in  an  altitude 
of  surrender.  If  one  must  be  loved,  where  more 
appropriate  than  the  top  of  a  tree?  There  appeared 
to  be  nothing  more  to  desire.  He  kissed  her  cheek 

"You'll  marry  me  one  day,  Barbara?" 

She  did  not  answer.  Why  shatter  the  spectrum 
of  this  supreme  illusion?  How  did  she  know?  How 


DIASTOLE  29 

could  she  tell?  Let  us  go  on  up.  Suddenly  his  lips 
were  pressed  against  hers,  and  she  exclaimed : 

"Oh,  no.  Don't  do  that,  Billy.  You'll  spoil  every- 
thing." 

She  was  sorry  for  him  then.  He  looked  so  fool- 
ish and  self-conscious  as  he  muttered: 

"I'm  sorry." 

They  sat  side  by  side  in  an  awkward  silence.  Then 
Billy  roused  himself  and  said: 

"Come  on,  then,  my  flibbertigibbet." 

He  wriggled  upwards  towards  the  next  branch. 
He  was  out  to  excel  himself,  to  accomplish  by  a 
gesture  what  he  had  failed  to  do  by  declamation.  By 
this  means  have  pioneers  established  great  colonies, 
captains  and  kings  succeeded — or  failed. 

She  watched  his  lithe  body  wriggling  along  a 
branch,  his  brown  hair  all  awry,  spotted  with  little 
leaves  and  fronds.  They  were  alone  up  in  this  en- 
chanted place.  She  suddenly  felt  strangely  disturbed, 
as  though  the  forces  of  her  life  had  reached  a 
climacteric. 

"It's  no  good,"  she  thought.  "I  believe  I  want 
him ;  I  want  Billy  for  my  very  own. ' ' 

The  branches  were  shaking  above  her.  She  could 
only  see  his  legs,  the  rubber  shoes  pressing  against 
the  bark. 

"Careful,  Billy!" 

Why  this  sudden  cold  transition  to  foreboding? 
Why  this  fear  of  the  unseen  ground  beneath?  She 
remembered  that  the  tree  was  very,  very  old  ... 
hundreds  of  years,  people  said. 

"Billy!  Billy!     .     .     .     not  too  high!  Please!" 

Then  she  shrank  against  the  stem,  paralysed  with 


30  HEARTBEAT 

horror.  She  felt  it  all  almost  before  it  had  happened. 
That  sudden  snap  of  a  branch  like  a  pistol-shot 
.  the  body  hurtling  through  the  leaves, 
which  seemed  to  whistle  as  it  passed  through  them ; 
the  thump  upon  a  branch  below,  a  gasp  of  pain,  a 
thousand  years,  filled  by  a  scream  from  Cicely,  and 
then  that  awful  dull  thud  upon  the  soil  beneath. 
How  she  got  down  she  had  no  recollection.  Cicely 
and  Jean,  white  to  the  lips,  were  leaning  over  the 
boy.  He  was  curled  up  sideways  and  his  face  ap- 
peared quite  green.  He  clutched  the  grass  convul- 
sively with  his  left  hand,  but  he  uttered  no  sound. 

Cicely  kept  repeating:  "0  God,  he's  hurt!" 

Jean  seemed  unable  to  move  or  think.  It  was 
Barbara  who  raced  into  the  house.  Where  would 
everybody  be?  She  wanted  everybody.  Mrs.  Toll- 
boy,  Miss  Bidde,  Beaver,  her  father's  man,  Mrs. 
Warner,  the  cook,  Sally,  the  three  house-maids — 
anybody  who  could  run  or  do  anything.  An  inspir- 
ation flashed  upon  her  as  she  entered  the  hall.  She 
snatched  up  the  stick  and  beat  the  dinner-gong  with 
the  fury  of  despair.  Heads  and  bodies  appeared 
from  various  part  of  the  house. 

"Come!  Come  quick,  all  of  you.  Billy  Hamaton's 
hurt!" 

They  carried  him  in  and  put  him  upon  a  bed  in 
a  spare  room.  He  was  semi-conscious,  still  groan- 
ing, still  suffering  pain.  Beaver  rode  off  on  a 
bicycle  to  fetch  the  doctor.  The  three  girls  stared 
disconsolately  at  each  other. 

1  'I  dared  him  to  do  it,"  said  Barbara,  in  the  tone- 
less accents  of  dismay. 


DIASTOLE  31 

IX. 

IT  was  exactly  a  week  later,  on  the  day  of  her 
father's  return,  that  they  told  her  the  truth  about 
Billy.  He  had  been  taken  away  to  a  hospital  on  a 
stretcher.  He  was  alive.  He  might  live  for  years ;  he 
might  even  live  to  old  age.  But  he  would  never,  never 
be  able  to  walk  again ;  neither  walk,  nor  run,  nor  play 
tennis,  nor  climb  trees.  His  spine  was  damaged. 
The  case  was  incurable,  and  there  was  even  the  dark 
menace  of  insanity.  When  she  heard  this,  she  stared 
dry-eyed  into  the  garden  which  to  her  had  once 
appeared  so  beautiful.  She  had  called  him  a  cow- 
ard. 

"Come  on,  Billy.  I  challenge  you." 
She  wandered  out  into  the  country.  Her  primal 
instinct  was  to  avoid  her  fellow-creatures,  like  an 
animal  stricken  with  disease.  She  dreaded  her 
father's  return.  If  she  could  only  escape  from  it 
all,  persuade  herself  that  it  had  never  happened. 
.  She  heard  him  arrive  in  the  early  even- 
ing, and  she  went  to  her  room  and  sent  word  that 
she  had  a  headache,  and  didn't  require  any  dinner. 
But  after  a  time  she  heard  his  heavy  footsteps  on 
the  stairs,  followed  by  three  familiar  taps  upon  her 
door.  He  entered  without  her  calling  out. 

He  made  a  few  solicitous  enquiries  about  her  as- 
sumed illness :  an  impossible  man  to  deceive.  Then 
he  perched  himself  upon  a  chair  that  appeared  to 
be  inadequately  constructed  for  such  a  diversion, 
and  wheezed : 

"A  bad  business  this  about  young  Hamaton." 
"I  don't  want  to  talk  to  him  about  it,"  she  kept 
on  thinking;  and  then  quite  irrelevantly:  "He  looks 
absurd  in  that  small  chair." 


32  HEARTBEAT 

Her  father  regarded  her  with  his  heavy,  dog-like 
scrutiny. 

''Better  eat  something,  my  dear.  Will  keep  you 
going.  Mustn't  give  way." 

She  answered  almost  crossly: 

"I  don't  want  anything." 

After  he  had  gone  she  cried  a  little,  and  then  lay 
quite  inert,  staring  at  the  wall. 

The  sun  went  down.  She  heard  the  distant  sounds 
of  servants'  movements,  waiting  on  her  father.  The 
distraction  kept  breaking  across  her  mobile  reflec- 
tions. 

Now  he  is  having  his  fish  .  .  .  now  he  is 
having  his  grouse,  done  in  that  (special  way  he 
makes  so  much  fuss  about  .  .  .  now  he,  is 
telling  Beaver  to  warn  cook  not  to  overdo  the  cay- 
enne pepper  in  the  savoury  .  .  .  now  he  is 
drinking  his  one  glass  of  port,  smacking  his  lips  and 
holding  the  glass  up  to  the  light  .  .  .  now 
he  is  lighting  his  cigar. 

And  all  the  time  Billy  is  suffering  .  .  .  ter- 
rible agonies.  If  he  should  go  mad ! 

The  night  came,  with  its  inchoate  imaginings, 
passages  of  suspended  animation,  troubled  dreams, 
swift  awakenings,  an  untiring  and  relentless  pro- 
gression of  self-analysis,  whether  dreaming  or 
awake.  Upon  the  question  of  her  responsibility  for 
Billy's  condition  she  had  no  illusions,  and  it  did  not 
help  her  to  know  that  the  world  would  not  agree 
with  her  self-imposed  sentence.  Young  people  play- 
ing together  .  .  .  these  things  will  happen 
.  .  .  no  one  responsible.  Who  was  to  know 
that  the  branch  was  rotten?  These  logical  conclus- 
ions would  not  satisfy  her;  they  jarred  her  sensibil- 


DIASTOLE  33 

ities.  She  wanted  to  suffer  more  directly.  If  only 
she  could  be  punished,  sent  to  prison,  beaten,  treat- 
ed as  they  used  to  treat  a  witch  in  olden  times !  She 
was  a  witch.  Her  witchery  had  destroyed  Billy. 
Almost  his  last  words  were : 

"I  love  you,  Barbara." 

Up  and  up  he  had  gone,  pandering  to  her  witch- 
craft. And  then 

In  that  pattern  of  sunlight  and  leaves  she  had 
decided  that  she  loved  him,  that  he  was  necessary 
to  her.  The  confession  had  been  trembling  upon  her 
lips.  She  was  not  committed;  at  the  time  she  was 
even  a  little  uncertain.  But  now  the  stark  reality 
of  the  position  came  home  to  her.  If  she  were  pled- 
ged in  her  heart  to  Billy  at  that  moment,  she  was 
even  more  pledged  to  him  now.  She  would  have  to 
marry  him  and  nurse  him  to  the  end  of  his  days. 
This  was  the  least  she  could  do,  the  humblest  aton- 
ment.  The  realisation  shocked  and  thrilled  her.  She 
was  frightened.  Marriage  in  its  happiest  aspects 
had  terrifying  features,  but  a  marriage  haunted  by 
the  spectres  of  suffering  and  remorse  was  an  almost 
unendurable  thing  to  contemplate.  Her  mind  be- 
came active  with  a  visualisation  of  all  the  restric- 
tions and  inhibitions,  the  setting  up  of  different  stan- 
dards, the  cleavage  from  the  old  order  of  carefree 
enjoyment.  Her  spirit  would  be  freed  and  quick- 
ened by  the  grim  consciousness  of  sacrifice.  She 
would  lose  everything;  at  the  same  time  she  would 
gain  something  which  the  world  could  not  take  from 
her.  But,  dear  God!  would  that  it  had  not  hap- 
pened! .  .  .  She  lay  there,  trembling,  in  the 
darkness.  .  .  .  Did  she  really  love  Billy  so 
much  as  all  that? 


34  HEARTBEAT 


SHE  heard  her  father  go  to  his  room;  the  usual 
sounds  of  the  large  house  closing  down  for  the 
night.  How  solemn  and  distant  it  all  seemed.  She 
felt  that  she  would  never  be  part  of  it  again.  After 
a  time  she  sighed  and  passed  into  a  gentle  sleep. 
Strange,  very,  very  strange,  but  her  dreams  were 
not  about  Billy  at  all.  It  was  very  curious  .  .  .  -  * . 
everyone  was  so  kind.  And  there  were  thousands 
of  them,  thousands  and  thousands,  and  they  were 
stretching  out  their  hands  and  smiling  at  her;  and 
there  were  flowers  and  bouquets,  and  George  Champ- 
neys  was  leaning  back  in  an  easy-chair  and  looking 
so  kind  and  friendly;  and  he  was  saying: 

"That's  right,  my  dear;  sing  "La  Pauvre  In- 
nocente." 

She  sang  it,  but  at  the  second  verse  she  broke 
down  and  cried.  Oh,  dear!  why  was  she  crying? 
The  crying  awakened  her  to  the  utter  stillness  of 
the  house. 

"It's  the  least  I  can  do,"  she  flung  into  the  dark- 
ness. 

And  suddenly  her  heart  was  filled  with  a  great 
pity,  not  only  for  Billy,  but  for  herself,  her  father, 
the  whole  world.  .  .  .  She  ached  for  human 
contact.  It's  all  so  empty  without  each  other.  She 
thought  of  her  father,  lying  there  alone  in  the  dark- 
ness. What  anguish  and  sorrow  might  he  not  have 
endured  in  his  life,  so  remote  from  hers.  Perhaps 
at  that  instant  he  was  lying  there,  wide-eyed  and 
unhappy,  yearning  for  her  mother.  .  .  .  The 
stillness  of  the  house  seemed  suffocating.  With  a 
sob  she  arose,  slipped  on  a  dressing-gown,  and  crept 


DIASTOLE  35 

out  into  the  passage.  Very  gently  she  turned  the 
handle  of  her  father's  door,  and  whispered: 

"Daddy." 

The  dull  reverberation  of  stentorian  breathing 
greeted  her.  She  called  a  little  louder: 

"Daddy!  Daddy!" 

The  noise  only  increased  in  violence,  accented  by 
the  explosive  crises  of  nauseating  snores.  She  shut 
the  door  quickly  and  withdrew,  her  heart  filled  with 
bitterness. 

"One  gets  old,  and  forgets,"  she  thought.  The 
reflection  angered  her;  at  the  same  time  she  felt 
that  old  hardening  process  working  in  her  spirit. 
"A  girl  has  got  to  look  after  herself."  How  was 
it  that  this  phrase  sometimes  came  to  her  like  an 
admonition  from  some  far-off  friend!  She  hated 
her  father.  "He's  nothing  to  me;  nothing,  nothing. 
I'm  hungry,"  she  thought  savagely.  It  was  not  that 
she  could  not  have  eaten  dinner;  it  was  only  that 
she  could  not  watch  her  father  eat.  )She  went  quietly 
down  into  the  larder.  She  cut  herself  a  thick 
slice  of  ham  and  bread.  She  sat  on  the  kitchen 
table,  eating  it  and  swinging  her  legs. 

Then  she  drank  a  glass  of  water,  and  went  back 
to  bed. 

She  felt  better  now,  more  contained,  more  mis- 
tress of  herself  .  .  .  and  very,  very  sleepy. 

"I  don't  know  what  I'm  going  to  do,"  she 
thought  drowsily.  "But  I'm  not  going  to  make  a 
fool  of  myself.  .  .  .  To-morrow  I'm  going  to 
learn  that  new  song  by  Roger  Quilter.  I  wonder 
whether  Mr.  Champneys  would  like  it." 

When  the  dawn  came,  and  the  starling  fluttered 
against  the  window,  her  heart  responded  gratefully 


36  HEARTBEAT 

as  it  did  on  that  morning  a  week  ago,  and  her  slum- 
bering senses  quivered  with  the  prescience  of  de- 
lightful coming  things. 

XI. 

THE  weeks  that  followed  marked  a  period  of  sus- 
pense. Her  critical  faculties  were  sharpened.  The 
revulsion  against  her  father  became  accentuated  in 
the  glow  of  a  rebellious  judgment.  She  began  to 
watch  him  closely,  his  goings  and  comings,  his  re- 
moteness, the  complete  concentration  of  his;  cen- 
tralised outlook.  She  no  longer  accepted  him  as  a 
passionless  fate;  he  was  a  creature  to  be  dissected 
and  analysed,  like  other  creatures.  Her  thoughts 
darted  round  him  like  fireflies  trying  to  illumine 
some  mysterious  object  in  the,  dark.  Their  light 
was  not  powerful,  and  she  observed  more  by  the 
glimmer  of  her  intuitions  than  by  the  direct  light 
of  her  observations,  above  all  things  she  became 
acutely  aware  of  his  inordinate  capacity  for  cruelty. 
It  must  be  so.  Not  the  ordered  cruelty  of  human 
passion,  but  the  cruelty  which  emanates  from  a 
complete  inability  to  acknowledge  any  point  of  view 
other  than  one's  own,  a  kind  of  perverted  egoism. 
So  secure  was  he  in  the  sanctity  of  his  tradition,  in 
the  power  of  his  mental  equipment,  that  he  would 
regard  any  infringement  of  the  code  he  represented 
in  the  way  that  he  had  regarded  the  interrupter  in 
the  House,  as  a  thing  of  so  little  consequence  that 
it  could  hardly  be  said  to  exist.  How  terribly  cruel 
such  a  man  could  be ! 

Barbara  had  always  been  an  initial  safely  depo- 
sited within  the  letter  of  the  code.    She  took  her 


DIASTOLE  37 

place,  carefully  tended  and  appraised.  But  if — if 
she  should  ever  revolt!  The  reflection  naturally 
acted  as  a  challenge  to  her  militant  self-respect. 
She  had  already  revolted  over  the  matter  of  the 
music.  She  had  revolted  in  many!  little  way  he 
knew  not  of.  But  was  this  enough?  The  upheaval 
of  her  whole  moral  and  spiritual  outlook,  caused  by 
the  accident  to  Billy,  reacted  upon  her  provocatively. 
She  pranced  within  a  vicious  circle  of  despair. 
Her  training  and  environment  left  her  unprepared 
to  face  a  serious  disruption — indeed,  to  face  trouble 
of  any  kind.  She  was  in  the  mood  to  lose  her  head. 
The  instinct  of  untrained  people  in  a  struggle  is  to 
strike  wildly.  She  could  not  by  any  stretch  of  the 
imagination  hold  her  father  responsible  for  Billy's 
fall.  But  his  aggravating  impassiveness  appeared 
to  her  as  the  proper  target  for  her  blows.  It  was 
perhaps  a  small  thing  that  he  snored  on  the  night 
when  Billy  was  suffering  so — after  all,  why  should 
he  care  about  Billy  Hamaton? — but  it  was  a  spark 
which  seemed  to  her  to  light  manyx  of  the  'dark 
spaces  of  his  character.  Immediately  she  thought 
of  a  thousand  other  little  incidents  in  her  life — 
things  which  had  not  impressed  her  at  the  time,  but 
which  now  seemed  charged  with  significance.  Her 
mother?  .  .  .  What  had  her  mother  suffered, 
when,  perhaps,  she  too  revolted  against  the  letter 
of  the  code? 

xn. 

SHE  had  seen  Billy,  and  the  sight  of  him  had  racked 
her  heart.  Not  that  he  was  suffering  now;  he  had 
been  gay  enough,  and  had  chaffed  her  for  her 
mournful  face.  The  cruellest  thing  seemed  to  her 


38  HEARTBEAT 

that  he  did  not  know.  He  believed  he  was  soon  to 
be  well  again,  and  his  naive  optimism  increased  her 
sense  of  responsibility  a  hundredfold.  She  wanted 
to  tell  him,  to  feel  the  torture  of  his  condemnation ; 
but  she  went  away  with  the  vision  of  his  eyes  filled 
with  love,  and  longing,  and  gratitude. 

And  yet,  as  the  days  went  by,  another  little  voice 
kept  repeating: 

"You  don't  really  love  Billy.  You  never  did.  You 
liked  him,  and  you  liked  him  loving  you.  You  were 
flattered,  elated,  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy — like  a  bird  up 
there  in  that  pattern  of  sunlight  and  leaves.  It  was 
the  singing  of  that  song,  the  approval  you  got,  the 
glamour  of  George  Champneys — all  these  things 
excited  you.  A  glorious  day,  wasn't  it?  Oh,  you 
fool!" 

She  hardly  dared  listen  to  this  voice,  so  con- 
sumed was  she  with  the  passionate  desire  for  sacri- 
fice, and  the  craving  for  revolt. 

One  evening  her  father  arrived  home  very  late 
to  dinner.  He  had  been  addressing  a  political  meet- 
ing in  his  own  constituency.  He  was  tired,  a  little 
flustered,  and  preoccupied.  She  heard  afterwards 
that  he  had  been  severely  heckled  by  some  Labour 
people.  She  watched  him  closely  as  h$  took  his  seat 
at  the  table.  In  this  duel  she  meant  to  have  with 
him  she  knew  that  she  must  seize  every  advantage 
of  time  and  position.  All  the  heavy  weapons  were 
on  her  father's  side.  She  had  dined  earlier  in  the 
evening,  but  she  thought  it  advisable  to  sit  with 
him,  and  be  patient  and  amiable.  She  knew  that  to 
question  him  about  the  meeting  would  only  anger 
him.  She  was  allowed  no  place  in  his  political  pre- 
occupations. So  she  inquired  about  his  health,  and 


DIASTOLE  39 

talked  placidly  of  local  events.  His  eyes  were  con- 
centrated on  his  plate  as  he  rumbled  vague  acquies- 
cences.  The  succession  of  dishes  nauseated  her.  She 
was  waiting  for  Beaver  to  retire,  and  to  leave  the 
master  alone  with  his  decanter  of  port.  Would  the 
meal  never  end?  She  thought: 

"How  awful  it  is  that  one  gets  old,  insensible  to 
all  the  finer  shades  of  feeling!  Is  it  like  that  with 
all  old  people — that  they  become  material  and  crus- 
ted and  careless,  making  horrid  little  noises  when 
they  eat  ...  fiddling  with  a  toothpick  be- 
tween the  courses,  because  there  is  no  one  present 
but  myself?  How  revolting  it  all  is!" 

The  inevitable  savoury  came  and  went.  She 
watched  Beaver  remove  the  last  traces  of  crumb 
and  disruption,  place  the  jardiniere  of  fruit  within 
reach,  also  the  decanter  of  port,  and  the  small  case 
of  liqueur-bottles  (which  her  father  never  touched). 

"Coffee,  sir?" 

Beaver  had  asked  that  question  every  evening 
for  twelve  and  a  half  years — ever  since  he  had  been 
in  the  service — and  he  had  always  met  with  a  re- 
fusal, but  he  still  persisted  to  ask  hopefully  and  to 
retire  apparently  crestfallen  and  dispirited  on  re- 
ceiving a  negative  reply. 

Barbara  landed  her  first  blow. 

"Daddy,  I  want  to  marry  Billy  Hamaton." 

Thomas  Powerscourt  was  holding  a  glass  of  port 
up  to  the  light,  and  regarding  it  critically.  When 
his  daughter  said  this  his  face  showed  no  general 
disposition  to  change.  He  seemed  more  concerned 
not  to  spill  the  port  than  anything  else.  His  hand 
was  trembling,  and  he  hesitated;  then  he  brought 
the  glass  up  to  his  heavy  lips,  and  took  a  deep  sip. 


40  HEARTBEAT 

He  spluttered  lightly  as  he  set  it  down,  and  blinked 
across  the  room  at  the  girl.  In  spite  of  the  perfect 
control  of  his  features  she  could  detect  the  swift  re- 
flection of  disturbed  surprise.  He  spoke  very  slowly 
and  languidly : 

"You  can't,  my  dear.  His  spine  ...  Sir 
Alfred  tells  me  he  can  never  recover." 

Barbara  had  got  her  opening,  and  she  knew  that 
now  was  the  time  to  strike  quickly.  Her  voice  was 
eager  and  tearful. 

"I  know.  I  know  all  about  that,  but  I  can't  help 
it.  I  owe  it  to  him.  I  love  him,  and  he  loves  me. 
Can't  you  see? — it  was  all  my  fault  that  he  climbed 
the  tree.  He  didn't  want  to.  I  dared  him.  I  called 
him  a  coward.  It's  all  through  me  he's  lying  there 
helpless.  I  can't  desert  him  just  because  of  this — 
because  he's  ill.  It  would  be  too  mean.  I  shall  have 
to  go  to  him,  nurse  him  as  long  as  he  lives.  I  will 
do  it — whatever  anybody  says." 

She  was  on  the  verge  of  tears — her  most  power- 
ful weapon.  But  Thomas  Powerscourt  had  now 
complete  control  of  himself.  He  was  very  gentle, 
almost  sympathetic. 

"It's  very  unfortunate,  my  dear;  very  regret- 
table. You  take  an  exaggerated  view  of  your  re- 
sponsibility. A  mere  accident — young  people  play- 
ing together.  Why,  he  might  have  challenged  you; 
the  position  might  have  been  reversed " 

Barbara  was  lying  in  wait  for  that.  She  exclaim- 
ed fiercely: 

"If  the  position  had  been  reversed,  do  you  think 
Billy  wouldn't  have  married  me?" 

It  seemed  to  take  a  long  time  for  this  to  sink  in ; 
then  he  said  judicially: 


DIASTOLE  41 

"I  should  say  most  certainly  no.  He  would  not 
have  married  you. '  ' 

Barbara  went  white  with  anger.  She  could  hard- 
ly gasp: 

''Then  you  don't  know  him.  It  shows  what  a  low 
ideal  you  have " 

The  big  man  stood  up  and  walked  to  the  fireplace. 
He  too  was  angry,  and  this  was  evident  only  by  the 
slightly  increased  clearness  of  his  diction,  making 
his  voice  sound  utterly  toneless : 

"There  is  perhaps  one  aspect  of  the  case  you — 
do  not  understand." 

What  was  coming?    Why  didn't  he  rage  at  her? 

4 'You  probably  have  not  considered,  Barbara,  or 
you  do  not  know — if  you  married  young  Hamaton, 
your  married  life  would  perforce  have  to  be  child- 
less  " 

"Well,  that  can't  be  helped.  Many  women  are 
childless." 

"M'm,  m'm."  He  purred  at  her,  nodding  his 
head  like  an  imitation  Chinese  god.  For  a  moment 
he  appeared  about  to  overwhelm  her  with  some 
cyclonic  outburst;  then  he  paused,  'as  though  re- 
garding the  delicate  ground  between  them. 

"I  am  thinking  of  your  good,"  he  said  deliber- 
ately. "I  want  you  to  be  happy  and  to  have  chil- 
dren." Quite  as  an  after-thought  he  added:  "I 
have  no  son." 

Barbara  rose  at  him. 

"Ah,  I  see!  You  have  no  son,  so  I  am  to  bear 
a  son  for  you.  He  won't  carry  your  name,  but  the 
stock  will  survive,  I  suppose.  You're  thinking  of 
me  and  my  good,  and  my  happiness !  Well,  I'm  cap- 
able of  thinking  of  my  own  happiness,  thank  you. 


42  HEARTBEAT 

I'm  not  always  going  to  do  just  what  you  tell  me. 
You  wouldn't  let  me  have  music,  which  I  crave  for; 
you  wouldn't  let  me  go  to  theatres  or  concerts,  the 
one  kind  of  thing  which  appeals  to  me  more  than 
anything  else.  You  give  no  reason,  no  excuse.  Well, 
I  tell  you  straight  out,  I'm  going  to  marry  whom  I 
like." 

The  surpris'e  upon  his  face  was  of  peculiar  qual- 
ity. He  appeared  not  greatly  moved,  not,  indeed, 
greatly  surprised  at  what  she  said  so  much  as  sur- 
prised by  some  inner  recollection.  It  was  the  face 
of  a  man  passing  through  an  experience  which  he 
is  vaguely  conscious  of  having  passed  through  be- 
fore. And  the  realisation  causes  him  to  doubt  his 
own  identity.  Barbara  and  her  little  affair  with 
Billy  seemed  far  away.  He  sighed,  took  out  a  hand- 
kerchief and  mopped  his  brow.  Then  in  his  normal 
voice  he  mumbled : 

"We  are  on  the  eve  of  a  great  political  crisis. 
.  .  .  I  am  very  tired,  my  dear.  Let  us  discuss 
this  some  other  time." 

XIII. 

BABBARA  was  beaten.  As  the  days  passed  her  forces 
became  diffused;  time  was  against  her.  Her  weak- 
est point  was  that  she  did  not  love  Billy  enough.  If 
she  were  really  fighting  for  her  own  happiness,  she 
knew  quite  well  that  to  marry  him  was  not  the  way 
to  attain  it.  The  day  would  come  when  she  would 
bitterly  rue  it.  It  angered  her  to  know  that  her 
father  was  right.  It  doesn't  do  to  give  way  to  a 
sentimental  whim.  The  shock  had  unnerved  her. 
Poor  Billy!  she  could  give  him  her  pity,  even  her 


DIASTOLE  43 

love,  but — it  would  be  foolish  to  marry  him.  She 
had  loved  what  he  represented,  the  life  they  had 
passed  together.  She  associated  him  with  sunny 
days  and  gay,  irresponsible  fun.  Together  they  had 
built  a  little  edifice  of  happy  days,  buttressed  with 
understanding,  familiar  jokes  and  sympathetic  ap- 
preciation of  each  other's  genius  for  life.  The  ac- 
cident had  shattered  it,  and  it  would  become  nec- 
essary to  reconstruct.  But  she  could  not  build  upon 
the  site  of  the  other.  Games  and  follies  would  be 
haunted  by  the  ghost  of  Billy.  She  would  have  to 
alter  the  whole  tenor  of  her  life.  Her  protective  in- 
stinct told  her  that  salvation  lay  in  work.  She  must 
have  something  to  do  that  would  absorb  her.  Work ! 
But  what  work?  If  her  father  would  not  let  her 
work  at  music,  what  was  she  to  do? 

Her  aunts  Jenny  and  Laura  shared  a. small  flat 
at  Ashley  Gardens,  Westminster.  It  contained  two 
spare  bedrooms,  one  of  which  was  always  reserved 
for  the  important  brother.  He  sometimes  occupied 
it  when  the  House  was  sitting  late.  Barbara  had 
occasionally  paid  brief  visits  there,  but  she  did  not 
like  it.  The  rooms  seemed  cramped,  the  air  was 
cramped;  above  all  things,  the  lives  of  her  aunts 
were  cramped.  They  were  timid  old  ladies,  very 
patriotic  and  religious,  and  their  lives  seemed  one 
long  plaint  about  what  things  were  coming  to.  They 
were  like  two  autumn  leaves  blown  along  in  a  gale. 
In  a  shiftless  and  unstable  world  nothing  seemed 
secure  except  their  brother  Thomas  Powerscourt. 
Without  the  solid  weight  of  his  intellect  and  char- 
acter England  would  perish;  even  the  other  mem- 
bers of  the  Cabinet  he  adorned  filled  them  with  sus- 
picion. It  was  not  an  atmosphere,  therefore,  which 


44  HEARTBEAT 

Barbara  felt  would  be  likely  to  spell  freedom  from 
her  father's  silent  tyranny;  nevertheless  it  was  the 
only  place  she  could  think  of  as  a  temporary  refuge. 
It  had  the  advantage  of  being  in  a  centre  of  vivid 
distractions,  and  a  visit  there  would  not  be  likely 
to  arouse  suspicions.  She  wrote  to  her  Aunt  Jenny, 
and  received  a  pressing  invitation  by  return  of 
post.  Her  father  fully  approved,  and  took  her  up 
to  town  himself. 

"I'm  very  busy,  Jenny,"  he  panted,  as  he  de- 
posited his  daughter  in  the  hall.  "The  political 
situation  is  serious,  very  serious  indeed.  I  may 
have  to  take  advantage  of  your  hosptality  quite  a 
bit  just  now.  This  Shipping  Bill  .  .  .  Eaynes 
is  trying  to  fog  the  issue.  Take  care  of  Barbara. 
She's  been — she's  had  a  bit  of  an  upset.  I  shall 
probably  be  in  to-night." 

Oh,  yes,  a  capable  diplomatist.  What  a  lot  he 
could  crowd  into  a  few  commonplace  sentences. 
Hinting  at  the  aunts'  hospitality,  when  he  was  pay- 
ing all  the  time.  The  absorption  in  the  political  situ- 
ation giving  him  excuse  to  be  ever  on  the  watch.  The 
remark  about  the  "upset"  playing  upon  the  sym- 
pathies of  all  concerned,  whilst  probably  on  the 
stairs  on  the  way  down  he  would  chuckle  inwardly 
over  his  victory  in  the  affair  of  "that  young  Ham- 
aton." 

XIV. 

THE  abrupt  cleavage  from  her  normal  associations 
bewildered  and  stimulated  her.  She  felt  like  an  ex- 
plorer in  a  dangerous  and  untrodden  land.  The 
more  she  suffered  from  the  loss  of  Cicely  and  Jean 
and  their  environment,  the  more  alert  did  she  be- 


DIASTOLE  45 

come  to  the  flavour  of  her  own  independence.  There 
was  a  fierce  joy  in  missing  things  and  being  ever  on 
the  watch.  The  pursuit  of  what  she  manfully  called 
work  was  fraught  with  difficulties.  The  mild  activ- 
ities of  her  aunts,  mostly  connected  with  Church 
charities,  did  not  appeal  to  her.  Reviewing  the  oc- 
cupations of  her  fellow-civilians,  she  quickly  real- 
ised her  own  amazing  ignorance  and  lack  of  train- 
ing. There  was  nothing,  absolutely  nothing  she 
could  do  to  satisfy  her  instinct  of  service.  To  be  a 
nurse  required  years  of  training;  clerical  or  office 
work  demanded  a  type  of  mind  she  had  not  got ;  the 
way  of  the  Arts  was  long  and  steep;  science  was 
an  unopened  book.  It  seemed  strange  to  think 
that  if  she  had  had  to  earn  her  living  she  would 
surely  have  starved.  The  reflection  caused  her  to 
nurture  a  further  dull  resentment  against  her 
father,  but,  strangely  enough,  it  did  not  depress 
her.  It  is  something  to  know  that  one  is  ignorant. 
Besides,  there  was  something  she  could  do.  She 
kept  circling  round  the  subject,  pretending  to  her- 
self that  she  was  looking  for  something  else,  but  in 
her  inmost  heart  knowing  all  the  time  she  meant  to 
do  it.  One  morning  she  told  her  aunts  that  she  was 
going  to  South  Kensington  Museum.  She  dressed 
herself  with  care  and  taste,  and  started  forth.  She 
did  indeed  go  to  Kensington,  but  not  to  the  Muse- 
um. She  turned  off  into  a  quiet  square  near  Ad- 
dison  Eoad.  She  rang  the  bell  of  a  corner  house; 
a  maid  opened  the  door,  and  Barbara  said : 

1  'Mr.  George  Champneys?" 

' 'Yes,  miss. " 

She  found  the  comedian  in  a  large  studio  at  the 
back.  He  took  her  hand,  and  for  a  moment  she 


46  HEARTBEAT 

could  tell  that,  although  her  face  appeared  familiar, 
he  could  not  remember  who  she  was.  She  smiled  at 
his  indecision.  Then  suddenly  he  gave  her  hand  a 
little  jerk  and  exclaimed : 

"Ah!  La  Pauvre  Innocente!" 

They  indulged  in  no  further  formalities.  Bar- 
bara felt  curiously  at  home  with  this  man.  He  was 
entirely  different  from  the  kind  of  people  who  con- 
stituted "the  set"  down  at  High  Barrow.  She  felt 
she  belonged  to  his  world.  He  said: 

"Well,  old  girl,  what  can  I  do  for  you?" 

Barbara  leant  across  the  back  of  a  grand  piano 
and  poured  out  her  soul. 

"It's  like  this,  Mr.  Champneys.  I  want  you  to 
tell  me  how  I  can  get  training.  You  were  awfully 
sweet  to  me  when  I  sang,  but  I  know  quite  well  I 
really  know  nothing  about  the  job.  The  point  is, 
I've  got  to  do  it  secret.  Daddy  objects  to  my  sing- 
ing at  all,  let  alone  anything  else,  like  dancing  or 
acting.  But  it's  no  good;  I  know  it's  the  thing  I've 
got  to  do.  I'm  an  awful  fool,  really.  I  know  nothing; 
but  I  have  got  a  bit  of  a  voice,  and  I  feel  I 
could  do — well,  the  kind  of  thing  you  go  in  for.  I'm 
living  with  two  aunts  at  Westminster,  and  they 
mustn't  know  either.  But  I  could  always  visit  any- 
one in  the  daytime — and  possibly  in  the  evening. 
I'm  a  splendid  liar.  I'm  crazy  to  begin.  Please, 
dear  Mr.  Champneys,  you  must  help  me." 

"Well,  well,  well,  well!" 

George  Champneys  regarded  her  thoughtfully, 
then  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed 

"A  splendid  liar,  eh?  Oh,  la  pauvre  innocent'e!  I 
don't  want  to  get  into  trouble  with  your  father, 
though.  He'd  get  an  Act  of  Parliament  passed  and 


DIASTOLE  47 

have  me  executed  in  some  special,  protracted  way. 
Oh,  dear!  this  is  awful!" 

" Don't  let  him  worry  you.  I  can  manage  him 
easily.  I  can  pay  fees,  too.  I've  got  nearly  a  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds  in  my  own  name." 

It  appeared  to  George  to  be  the  funniest  joke  he 
had  ever  heard.  He  could  not  control  his  laughter. 
Dear  me,  what  a  child!  But  eventually,  of  course, 
he  agreed. 

His  friend,  Birtles,  the;  composer,  was;  a  very 
good  teacher  of  singing.  Madame  Katie  Shaw  could 
teach  her  all  there  was  to  know  about  dancing.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  his  own  studio  was  nearly  always 
in  use  for  rehearsals  and  experiments.  She  could 
go  there  whenever  she  liked.  He  would  help  her  in 
any  way  he  could— even  at  the  risk  of  his  life. 

XV. 

THEN  followed  the  happiest  period  of  Barbara's 
life.  It  is,  perhaps,  a  regrettable  fact  that  she 
thought  very  little  about  Billy,  lying  in  a  nursing- 
home  in  the  country.  Her  brief,  endearing  notes 
occurred  at  longer  intervals.  She  never  wrote  to 
Cicely  or  Jean  at  all.  She  became  absorbed,  elated, 
tremendously  excited  about  herself.  She  met  other 
girls  at  George's  studio,  brilliantly  clever,  fascin- 
ating girls.  And  Barbara  copied  their  mode  of 
dress,  their  mannerisms,  their  point  of  view.  Oh, 
this  was  a  life  indeed !  She  felt  free,  strong  in  her 
natural  powers.  As  she  said,  she  was  a  splendid 
liar.  It  was  necessary  to  make  up  a  rather  elabor- 
ate lie,  not  only  to  cover  her  absences,  but  to  ac- 
count for  her  long  stay  in  London.  The  story  she 


48  HEARTBEAT 

made  up  was  that  she  was  studying  old  lace.  Fortu- 
unately,  she  had  always  been  interested  in  lace,  and 
she  knew  a  little  about  it,  and  there  was  a  magnifi- 
cent collection  in  South  Kensington  Museum.  But 
the  idea  was  prompted  by  the  discovery  on  a  book- 
stall in  the  Brompton  Road  of  a  sketch-book  con- 
taining pencil  sketches  of  lace — obviously  a  stud- 
ent's work.  Barbara  bought  the  book  and  smug- 
gled it  home.  She  tore  out  the  pages  and  cleaned 
them  up.  Every  few  days  she  would  produce  one 
of  these  sheets  and  show  it  to  her  aunts,  explaining 
how  she  had  drawn  it  herself  that  afternoon.  It 
was  circumstancial  evidence  of  a  most  convincing 
kind.  Her  aunts  were  greatly  impressed  by  dear 
Barbara's  industry  and  skill.  Besides,  it  was  such 
ladylike  work,  and  so  interesting  and  refined.  Thom- 
as Powerscourt  was  also  impressed,  but  the  political 
situation  was  such  that  he  could  not  devote  much 
attention  to  his  daughter. 

XVI. 

IN  the  early  winter  this  question  of  a  political  situ- 
ation began  to  force  itself  on  Barbara's  mind.  For 
one  thing,  contact  with  her  professional  friends  had 
broadened  her  outlook;  she  even  took  a  mild  inter- 
est in  politics  itself.  The  government  were  having 
trouble  with  a  Shipping  Bill.  It  was  an  unpopular 
Bill,  but  one  which  would  strengthen  their  hands  in 
dealing  with  dockyard  labour.  Important  questions 
of  principle  were  at  stake.  Thomas  Powerscourt 
had  been  the  framer  of  that  Bill,  and  he  was  con- 
sidered its  protagonist.  The  trouble  centered 
round  a  certain  Clause  37. 


DIASTOLE  49 

On  the  surface  the  minister  appeared  as  imper- 
turbable as  ever,  but  Barbara  knew  that  he  was  very 
worried.  He  slept  badly  and  his  digestion  was  all 
wrong.  She  could  tell  this  by  his  eyes.  Sometimes 
they  motored  down  to  High  Barrow  for  the  week- 
end, but  Barbara  always  returned  with  him  on  the 
Monday.  His  remoteness  seemed  more  pronounced 
that  ever.  He  took  little  interest  in  her  actions  or 
appearance.  He  was  strangely  absent-minded  and 
vague,  and  inclined  to  be  querulous.  Her  subter- 
fuge about  the  lace  studies  seemed  almost  super- 
fluous. He  asked  no  questions,  and  was  completely 
indifferent  whether  she  stayed  in  the  country  or 
came  to  town.  This  attitude  naturally  added  fuel 
to  the  fires  of  her  resentment.  They  were  as  the 
poles  apart.  She  was  beginning  to  fear  him  no 
longer.  In  a  perverse  mood  she  thought:  "One  of 
these  days  I'll  give  him  the  surprise  of  his  life." 

A  malicious  joy  crept  through  her  veins.  Flattery 
went  to  her  head  like  wine.  She  had  heard  George 
Champneys  praising  her  to  a  colleague.  Madame 
Katie  Shaw  had  declared  her  a  natural  dancer,  one 
of  the  best  pupils  she  had  had  for  years. 

Meantime,  the  governing  body  perspired  with 
the  weight  of  its  unfortunate  Shipping  Bill.  A 
crisis  occurred  one  afternoon  in  the  aunts '  flat.  Her 
father  had  come  in  to  lunch.  He  tore  at  his  food 
savagely — swallowing  great  quantities  of  mayon- 
naise and  game-pie.  He  looked  like  an  old  bear  that 
had  been  worried  by  dogs.  He  was  sullen  and 
morose.  The  attitude  of  the  aunts  annoyed  her 
more  than  anything.  They  spoke  in  hushed  whis- 
pers, they  hung  upon  his  slightest)  word,  they 
soothed  and  coaxed  and  petted  him.  The  position 


50  HEARTBEAT 

became  unendurable.  Barbara  had  been  following 
the  idea  of  the  Bill  as  well  as  she  could,  and  she  felt 
convinced  that  her  father's  principles  were  wrong. 
Her  sympathies  were  naturally  with  the  dock-peo- 
ple and  she  felt  their  case  was  being  side-tracked. 
Without  any  preliminary  warning  she  suddenly 
launched  a  criticism  of  his  pet  Clause  37.  What  she 
said  was  neither  clever  nor  penetrating  but  it  clear- 
ly showed  that  she  knew  something  about  it. 

It  was  an  awful  moment.  Her  Aunt  Laura  ex- 
claimed : 

' '  Really  Barbara  dear ! ' ' 

She  had  expected  that  her  father  would  regard 
her  with  his  usual  sleepy  indifference  and  not  deign 
to  reply  but  to  her  surprise  his  eyes  glowed  with 
malevolence.  He  spluttered  over  his  food,  and  sud- 
denly barked  at  her : 

" Leave  the  room!" 

The  tactics  were  unfortunate  on  both  sides.  A 
few  months  ago  she  would  have  slunk  away,  gone 
to  her  bedroom  and  wept.  But  on  this  occasion  she 
did  certainly  leave  the  room — she  had  finished  her 
lunch.  She  stood  up,  folded,  her  napkin,  walked 
quietly  out.  She  crossed  the  passage  and  entered 
the  drawing-room  opposite.  There,  there  was  an 
old  upright  piano.  She  sat  down  and  opened  the 
lid.  She  ran  her  fingers  lightly  over  the  keys,  and 
then  began  to  sing  "La  Dame  Mariee  a  un  Pucwt." 

She  had  completed  two  verses  quite  successfully 
when  she  heard  the  door  open  and  the  heavy  stamp 
of  her  father's  feet.  His  hand  came  down  heavily 
on  her  right  fore-arm.  He  pulled  her  from  the 
stool. 


DIASTOLE  51 

"What  is  this?  How  is  it  you  sing  and  play 
against  my  instructions'?" 

Barbara  broke  away  from  him,  and  exclaimed  de- 
fiantly : 

"Why  won't  you  let  me  sing  and  play?  What  is 
your  reason?" 

"You've  done  it;  you've  been  working  at  it  be- 
hind my  back ! ' ' 

"Why  shouldn't  I?" 

The  aunts  were  already  in  the  room,  hovering 
agitatedly  like  birds  whose  nest  has  been  disturbed. 
Suddenly  he  put  his  hand  up  to  his  head  and  com- 
plained of  dizziness.  They  led  him  to  the  bedroom 
and  he  lay  down.  The  telephone  rang.  The  Prime 
Minister's  secretary  was  wanting  to  know  if  he 
could  be  at  a  committee-room  at  four  o'clock. 

"Yes,  yes!"  he  shouted  from  the  bedroom. 

But  he  never  got  to  the  House  at  four  o'clock.  He 
fell  into  a  kind  of  coma,  and  complained  of  pains 
around  the  heart.  A  grey-bearded  doctor  arrived 
shook  his  head  prescribed  physic,  and  a  complete 
rest. 

"He's  very  ill,"  he  said  sternly  to  Barbara,  as 
though  aware  of  her  responsibility  in  the  matter. 

XVII. 

IN  the  days  that  followed  the  flat  became  a  hive 
of  fevered  activities.  Various  important  person- 
ages called.  Telegrams  and  despatches  accumu- 
lated in  the  hall.  The  telephone  was  never  silent. 
It  became  evident  that  the  Ship  of  State— or  per- 
haps it  was  only  the  crew — was  heading  towards  its 
— or  their — doom.  Barbara  could  not  help  being 


52  HEARTBEAT 

impressed  by  these  outward  manifestations  of  her 
father's  importance,  neither  could  she  quite  under- 
stand her  own  indifference  to  his  welfare.  When 
her  Aunt  Jenny  had  said : 

"Your  behaviour,  Barbara,  has  made  your  father 
very  ill." 

She  had  replied: 
"Perhaps  it  was  the  game-pie. " 
Later  in  the  day  Aunt  Laura  had  said: 
"Of  course,  Barbara,  we  cannot  expect  you  to 
leave  while  your  dear  father  is  so  ill.    You  will  re- 
main to  help  to  nurse  him.    But  Jenny  and  I  both 
feel  that  when  he  is  well  again  it  would  be  better 
for  you  to  return  to  the  country.    We  were  both 
exceedingly  surprised  that  you  should  have  used 
our  flat  in  this  way — taking  secret  lessons  in  sing- 
ing and  playing,  against  your  father's  expressed 
wishes." 

To  this  she  had  replied : 

"All  right,  Aunt.  We'll  talk  about  it  later  on." 
She  began  to  take  an  avid  interest  in  the  news- 
papers. Far  from  subsiding,  the  excitement  over 
the  political  situation  was  becoming  more  intense. 
As  is  so  often  the  case,  there  was  more  behind  the 
Government  Bill  than  appeared  on  the  surface.  It 
also  became  evident  that  some  of  the  members  and 
newspapers— those  in  opposition  to  her  father's 
party— were  hinting  that  Thomas  Powerscourt's 
illness  was  assumed.  They  did  not  believe  in  it,  or 
him.  He  was  afraid  to  face  the  criticism  of  his 
precious  Clause  37.  The  fight  went  on  for  days. 
Mr.  Bream,  the  Under-Secretary  of  State,  was 
howled  down.  Unpleasant  things  were  hurled 
across  the  floor  of  the  House.  On  the  third  day, 


DIASTOLE  53 

when  Mr.  Bream  was  trying  to  speak,  a  small  body 
of  members  kept  up  a  kind  of  chant : 
"Sit  down,  Bream.    We  want  Powerscourt. " 

XVIII. 

IN  order  to  give  him  as  much  air  as  possible,  some 
of  the  furniture  had  been  moved  out  of  his  bed- 
room. Among  other  things  a  small  chest  and  a 
few  boxes  were  placed  in  Barbara's  room.  On  that 
night  when  Mr.  Bream  had  been  howled  down  for 
the  second  time,  the  Prime  Minister  had  called  late 
and  had  an  interview  with  her  father.  The  excite- 
ment in  the  little  flat  had  been  intense.  The  aunts 
were  dreading  that  their  incomparable  brother 
would  be  persuaded  to  get  up  and  go  down  to  the 
House,  whatever  condition  he  was  in.  Specialists 
had  been  called  in  to  endorse  the  verdict  of  the  other 
doctors.  Barbara  could  not  sleep.  She  never  slept 
very  well  in  Westminster.  The  night  seemed  weighted 
with  congested  lives.  It's  all  struggle,  and 
struggle,  and  struggle  .  .  .  even  in  their 
sleep  the  struggle  goes  on.  The  struggle  for  air, 
food,  wealth,  love,  power.  How  insignificant  we 
are!  Whether  we  gain  or  lose  in  the  struggle,  we 
pass  away.  Others  come,  fight  for  the  same  things. 
Do  things  just  exist  to  be  fought  for?  A  hundred 
years  ago  different  people  were  sleeping  in  these 
same  dark  houses  and  struggling  for  these  identical 
things.  How  queer  that  was!  The  things  remain 
to  be  struggled  for,  but  the  people  pass  on.  She 
peered  out  of  the  window  and  saw  the  cupola  of 
Westminster  Cathedral  looking  as  old  and  myster- 
ious in  the  darkness  as  the  religion  which  gave  it 


54  HEARTBEAT 

birth.  And  yet  the  Cathedral  was  almost  new..  So 
some  things  pass  away,  too — buildings,  and  power, 
and  wealth.  What  was  she  thinking  of?  What  is 
it  that  remains?  The  idea?  The  spirit?  But  even 
before  the  idea  of  the  Cathedral— there  were  other 
ideas.  Christianity  was  not  so  very  old.  There  had 
been  hundreds  of  religions  before  Christianity, 
hundreds  of  civilisations  before  this,  hundreds  of 
dead  worlds  swinging  in  the  sky.  Nothing  remain- 
ed then :  neither  air,  nor  food,  nor  wealth,  nor  love, 
nor  power.  .  .  .  She  shivered  and  turned  on 
the  light. 

"I  want  something  frightfully,  and  I  don't  know 
what  it  is,"  she  thought. 

She  took  up  a  book  and  began  to  read,  but  her 
eyes  were  tired.  She  examined  the  old  chest  of 
her  father's.  It  was  stuffed  with  papers  and  letters 
and  odds  and  ends.  "I've  no  right  to  probe  into 
his  papers,"  she  said  to  herself,  but  she  continued 
to  do  so.  At  the  very  bottom  of  the  chest  she  came 
across  an  old  play-bill.  It  was  very  crinkled  and 
torn.  It  was  dated  October  24th,  but  there  was  no 
year  mentioned.  It  looked  very,  very  old,  so  she 
gazed  idly  at  the  announcement.  It  appeared  to  be 
of  some  sort  of  vaudeville  entertainment  at  the 
Royal  Theatre,  Croydon.  There  was  a  sketch  call- 
ed "Mr.  Ingles  Takes  the  Town."  A  famous  clown 
was  starred — the  Great  Hannifan.  Then  she  came 
across  an  announcement  which  caused  her  heart  to 
flutter.  "Miss  Kitty  O'Bane,  the  comedy  star  from 
London,  in  song  and  dance." 

Kitty  O'Bane!  A  strange  thrill  went  through  her 
being.  It  was  almost  as  though  the  old  play-bill 
were  an  answer  to  her  doubts  .  .  .  nothing 


DIASTOLE  55 

remains,  then?  She  found  herself  sobbing  as  she 
turned  it  over  reverentially.  Something  remains 
.  mother,  dear! 

She  searched  the  chest  again  more  eagerly.  In 
a  corner  where  the  play-bill  had  lain  was  a  packet 
of  letters.  The  ink  had  faded  and  the  writing  was 
not  very  legible.  It  was  what  they  would  call  an 
uneducated  person's  writing. 

"0  God!  I  have  no  right  to  read  these  letters." 

Her  heart  was  beating  rapidly.  She  felt  she  must 
read  just  a  few  words,  a  sentence  or  two.  It  would 
mean  so  much  to  her.  It  was  the  thing  she  had  been 
wanting  so  much.  She  peeped  into  the  envelopes 
without  taking  the  letters  out.  Endearing  terms 
and  disjointed  sentences  jumbled  before  her  tear- 
besmirched  vision.  "Your  loving  Kitty."  "My 
beloved  Tom,  don't  be  unkind  to  me — of  course  I 
am  bound  to  do  as  you  wish.  You  led  me  to  think 
it  would  be  otherwise.  .  .  ."  "Oh,  how  lovely 
it  was  last  night.  It  seemed  cruel  you  had  to  go. 
.  "  "  Tommy  dear,  what  are  we  going  to  do  ? " 
"We  travelled  all  night  by  coach  to  Edinburgh.  I 
looked  up  at  the  stars  and  thought  of  you.  Your 
little  Kitten  was  very  lonely.  0,  send  me!  some 
message." 

No,  no;  she  couldn't  go  on.  It  wasn't  fair.  What- 
ever he  had  done,  whatever  had  happened  between 
those  two,  the  letters  were  sacred  to  them.  Even 
she — the  child  of  that  union — had  no  right  to  in- 
trude. 

She  put  them  back  and  turned  out  the  light.  One 
fact  impressed  itself  upon  her  disordered  mentality. 
Her  father  had  kept  the  letters.  Whether  he  was 
right  or  wrong,  whether  he  had  behaved  badly  or 


56  HEARTBEAT 

well,  he  had  kept  her  mother's  letters  all  these 
years. 

XIX. 

To  Barbara  the  day  that  followed  was  a  phantas- 
magoria, as,  indeed,  it  was  to  many  other  people 
in  England.  It  was  November,  overcast  and  cold; 
a  turgid  wind  moved  the  fog  and  heavy  moisture 
up  and  down  the  streets  as  a  policeman  will  move 
an  ugly  tramp.  In  after  years  she  tried  to  piece 
together  the  emotions  and  experiences  of  that  day, 
but  in  vain.  She  could  never  be  certain  as  to  what 
she  had  observed  and  what  she  had  imagined;  as  to 
what  part  in  the  story  she  had  taken  herself  and 
what  part  she  had  pieced  together  from  the  records 
of  others.  She  observed  the  events  of  that  day,  a 
goddess  suspending  judgment;  strangely  alert  to 
the  approach  of  impending  tragedy  she  felt  no  great 
desire  to  avert.  What  must  be,  must  be.  She  shrug- 
ged her  shoulders  and  prepared  to  defend  her  own 
interests. 

The  morning  papers  reflected  the  cumulative 
effect  of  political  pressure.  The  public  was  in  an 
ugly  mood.  "  The  issues  involved  were  too  obscure 
to  be  closely  followed  by  the  layman,  but  he  was 
angry  with  "the  law's  delay,  the  insolence  of  of- 
fice." What  he  wanted  was  a  man,  someone  to 
point  the  way  and  lead  him.  In  such  a  mood  vast 
bodies  of  people  will  swing  from  one  side  to  the 
other,  like  swallows  maneuvering  in  the  sky.  In 
politics  it  is  the  leader's  business  to  anticipate.  He 
pretends  to  create,  but  in  effect  he  only  interprets. 

Observing  this  larger  drama  through  the  reflec- 
tion of  her  own,  Barbara  thought : 


DIASTOLE  57 

1  'Is  he  thinking  of  the  people  or  of — himself?  Is 
he  a  vast  abstraction  existing  for  the  public  good? 
Or  is  he  a  man  with  follies  and  tenderness?  Why 
does  he  live  at  all?  Why  don't  I  know  him?" 

She  sat  at  her  window  looking  into  the  dim 
streets. 

The  hungry  clamour  of  public  importunity  began. 

"If  it  were  not  so  very  urgent,  so  very,  very  im- 
portant  "  A  tall,  fair  young  secretary  in  the 

hall,  the  younger  son  of  a  duke,  bowing  and  apolo- 
gising. Mr.  Bream  again:  "Just  one  word."  An- 
other specialist.  0,  God!  that  telephone!  The 
morning  was  hustled  away.  At  one  o'clock  the  doc- 
tor returned,  accompanied  by  a  man  with  electric 
batteries. 

"I  know  what  that  means.  He's  going  down  to 
the  House.  It  will  kill  him." 

The  aunts  were  scared,  but  slightly  flushed  with 
the  importance  of  the  occasion.  Barbara  went  out 
for  a  walk.  "No  'old  lace'  to-day  for  me,"  she 
thought  ironically.  She  pushed  her  way  through 
the  drifting  fog.  People's  faces  looked  pink,  ra- 
ther jolly.  0  people,  people,  how  lovely  you  are! 
The  walk  invigorated  her.  In  the  years  to  come 
she  would  meet  all  sorts  of  people.  What  people? 
Who  would  come  out  of  the  fog  to  be  her  friend? 
How  queer  it  seemed  to  think  that  at  that  moment, 
walking  about  the  world,  were  people  who  would  be 
very  important  to  her  .  .  .  perhaps  a  lover. 
Perhaps  at  that  identical  moment  he  was  walking 
down  the  next  street,  quite  unconscious  of  the  hap- 
piness she  meant  to  bring  him.  0  joy!  She  sang 
quietly  to  herself  as  she  passed  the  railings  of  Green 
Park. 


58  HEARTBEAT 

XX. 

IT  was  half-past  three  when  she  got  back  to  the 
flat.  A  carriage  was  drawn  up  outside.  Two  men 
in  bowler  hats  were  idling  about.  Just  as  she  was 
approaching  they  pulled  themselves  up  and  looked 
up  the  steps  towards  the  entrance.  Barbara  follow- 
ed their  gaze  and  her  eyes  beheld  a  strange  sight. 
At  the  top  of  the  steps,  and  just  about  to  descend, 
stood  her  father.  He  was  all  swathed  up  in  ulsters, 
and  shawls,  and  on  his  head  was  perched  an  ancient 
top-hat.  He  looked  enormous.  On  either  side  of 
him,  and  supporting  him,  were  two  other  men,  one 
of  whom  she  recognised  as  Sir  John  Diehl,  Secre- 
tary for  Home  Affairs.  The  cortege  slowly  descend- 
ed, step  by  step.  When  they  had  reached  the  last 
step  but  one  Barbara  advanced  and  said  timidly: 
"Do  you  think  you  ought  to  go,  Daddy?" 
The  utter  banality — indeed  futility — of  her  ap- 
peal struck  her  before  the  words  were  out  of  her 
mouth.  It  was  like  the  mouse  saying  to  the  moun- 
tain: 

"Do  you  think  you  ought  to  be  here?" 
She  felt  utterly  insignificant.  He  did  not  look 
at  her.  She  could  read  the  restless  concentration 
in  his  eyes.  Surrounded  by  his  supporters,  he 
seemed  to  exude  an  aura  of  abstract  energy.  It 
was  as  though  she  were  trying  to  set  the  puny  in- 
fluence of  her  personal  claims  against  that  of  vast 
blocks  of  interests.  None  of  the  politicians  took  the 
slightest  notice  of  her.  They  were  feverishly  pilot- 
ing the  vehicle  of  their  herd  instincts  to  the  place 
where  it  would  operate  most  advantageously.  No- 
thing else  counted.  One  of  the  horses  stamped  im- 


DIASTOLE  59 

patiently.  The  men  in  the  bowler  hats  were  open- 
ing and  shutting  doors.  She  leant  against  the  rail- 
ing. The  carriage  vanished  into  the  fog. 

She  stared  after  it  for  some  minutes  and  said 
quite  loudly : 

1  'Oh,  all  right!" 

The  inanity  of  this  remark  startled  her  to  the 
truth  of  her  position.  She  went  upstairs  and  talked 
quite  rationally  to  the  aunts  about  domestic  ar- 
rangements. The  afternoon  dragged  on.  They  had 
tea,  and  she  listened  to  Aunt  Jenny  tell  a  long 
story  about  a  series  of  illnesses  that  had  occurred 
to  a  family  that  Barbara  had  never  heard  of.  Lights 
flickered  green  in  the  streets  below.  It  was  just 
after  six  o'clock  that  Aunty  Laura  came  into  the 
room  and  said : 

"Oh,  those  awful  newsboys!  They're  calling  out 
something  at  the  back.  Murder,  I  think." 

Barbara  walked  quietly  out  and  opened  a  win- 
dow on  the  staircase. 

"Oh,  don't  do  that,  my  dear,"  whined  Aunt 
Laura.  "You  make  such  a  draught." 

Barbara  did  not  answer.  She  shut  the  window 
and  came  back  into  the  room.  Then  she  walked  to 
the  other  window  and  looked  down  into  the  street. 
Suddenly  she  said  in  a  perfectly  rigid  voice : 

"Do  you  know  what  they  are  calling  out!" 

"What,  my  dear?" 

"Daddy's  dead.  He  dropped  down  dead  in  the 
House." 

XXI. 

IT  was  possibly  a  morbid  craving  which  prompted 
her  in  after-years  to  reconstruct  that  scene  in  the 


60  HEARTBEAT 

House  again  and  again.  The  enveloping  grip 
which  her  father  had  upon  her  the  whole  of  her 
life  carried  her  with  him  into  those  last  fateful 
periods.  And  yet,  vivid  as  the  scene  appeared,  the 
moral  repercussion  impressed  her  more,  the  curious 
shifting  of  values.  Dignified  and  venerable  strangers 
pressed  her  hand  in  profound  sympathy.  The 
world  was  suddenly  very  kind.  All  the  venom  dis- 
appeared from  the  newspapers.  The  old  Shipping 
Bill  appeared  no  longer  a  matter  of  controversy. 
Whereas  before  it  had  been  the  nerve-centre  of 
conflicting  passions,  it  now  appeared  an  obsolete 
pound  of  parchment.  A  very  famous  Minister 
stood  up  in  the  House  and  solemnly  declared: 

"We  may  truly  say  of  Thomas  Power scourt  that 
he  gave  his  life  for  his  country.*' 

Possibly.  It  certainly  killed  him,  going  down  to 
the  House  that  day;  but — little  sardonic  thoughts 
played  around  the  fringe  of  her  meditations.  If  he 
hadn't  been  so  fond  of  game-pie,  for  instance,  he 
might  still  be  alive.  If  she  hadn't  sung  "La  Dome 
Mariee  a  un  Puant" — but  why  shouldn't  she  sing? 
What  was  this  tyranny  he  dared  to  hold  above  her? 
What  do  these  people  know  of  the  character  of  their 
gods?  They  are  always  seeking  the  same  thing— a 
drama,  a  story.  They  must  see  life  in  terms  of 
heroism  and  action;  it  must  be  an  epic  of  triumph 
or  failure. 

The  closing  episode  was  dramatic  enough— as 
far  as  that  went.  The  House  seething  with  excite- 
ment, the  imposing  factions  conscious  of  impend- 
ing crisis,  but  never  deserted  by  the  outward  flour- 
ish of  ragging  schoolboyishness,  uncomplimentary 
epithets  being  flung  across  the  floor,  messengers 


DIASTOLE  61 

coming  and  going,  party  Whips  feverishly  rallying 
their  flocks,  the  Government  idols  being  knocked 
over  like  ninepins;  and  suddenly  Cheyne-Garstin 
upon  his  feet. 

Everyone  knew  Cheyne-Garstin,  that  formidable 
Celtic-looking  Yorkshireman.  He  was  the  bitter- 
est opponent  of  the  Government,  a  brilliant  dialec- 
tician, a  dour  fighter.  He  waved  a  sheaf  of  notes, 
and  his  followers  roared  hoarsely.  In  his  rich  deep 
burr  he  began  an  ironic  survey  of  the  whole  Gov- 
ernment attitude  during  the  progress  of  the  Bill. 
Then  passion  began  to  creep  into  his  voice,  and  with 
power  and  closely-reasoned  logic  he  concentrated 
on  the  pretensions  of  Clause  37.  He  carried  the 
House  with  him;  even  the  Government  supporters 
were  looking  uncertain  and  slightly  moved.  It  was 
the  moment  when  the  swallows  would  swing  in  their 
flight.  He  tore  Clause  37  to  pieces  by  moving  an 
amendment  which  would  leave  it  unrecognisable. 
He  sat  down  amidst  ringing  cheers  from  his  side 
of  the  House  and  cries  of  ' '  'Vide !  Vide ! ' ' 

There  was  a  restless  movement  of  despair  around 
the  figure  of  Mr.  Bream.  What  were  the  Govern- 
ment going  to  do!  What  was  the  Speaker  whisper- 
ing about?  Followed  a  rowdy  interval  of  nervous 
suspense,  when  suddenly  from  behind  the  Speaker's 
chair  emerged  the  vast,  muffled  form  of  old  Tom 
Powerscourt,  the  centre  of  a  small  supporting  cor- 
tege. When  the  members  recognised  him  a  fierce 
exultant  shout  went  up.  All  people  love  a  drama, 
and  most  people  love  a  fight — here  were  the  ele- 
ments of  both.  The  Government  party  roared  them- 
selves hoarse,  and  the  Opposition  were  equally  as 
excited.  One  schoolboy  of  sixty  called  out: 


62  HEARTBEAT 

"Prop  him  up  and  let's  shy  at  him." 
There  was  a  universal    cry    of    '  *  Powerscourt ! 
Powerscourt ! ' ' 

They  say  he  gave  no  evidence  of  any  conscious- 
ness of  the  peculiarly  dramatic  mise-en-scene  in 
which  he  found  himself  the  principal  actor.  He 
stood  by  the  table,  stonily  regarding  the  Speaker. 
When  he  spoke  his  voice  was  cold,  passionless,  mat- 
ter-of-fact. He  spoke  rather  more  quickly  than  he 
was  accustomed  to,  as  though  anxious  to  gain  his 
point  within  a  given  time.  He  simply  said: 

"The  honourable  member  for  West  Bordesly 
has  miscalculated  the  economic  eff ect  of  his  amend- 
ment to  Clause  37.  The  figures  he  quotes  with  re- 
gard to  the  sliding-scale  of  subsidies  were  founded 
upon  the  original  estimate  made  by  Lord  St.  Gyste, 
and  not  upon  those  in  the  White  Paper  issued  by 
the  Board  of  Trade  last  March.  .  .  . " 

He  stopped  and  fumbled  with  documents,  adjust- 
ed his  horn  spectacles  very  slowly,  then  cleared  his 
throat  and  went  on : 

"I  shall  endeavour  to  put  before  you  the  deliber- 
ate social  and  economic  effects  of  these  two  con- 
crete propositions.  If  the  honourable  member  for 
West  Bordesly  can  persuade  me  that  the  effect  of 
his  proposition  will  be  more  beneficial  to  the  com- 
munity at  large,  then  I  shall  be  happy  to  accept  the 
amendment  and  the  Government  will  accept  the — 
consequences. " 

He  paused  a  long  time,  and  then  one  of  his  col- 
leagues whispered  to  him  He  bent  down  and  lis- 
tened intently,  and  then  stared  abstractedly  at  his 
papers,  as  though  weighing  the  value  of  the  remark. 
At  last  he  continued : 


DIASTOLE  63 

"It  is  only  too  apparent  that  a  principle  which 
may  have  everything  to  recommend  it  in  theory 
may,  when  passed  through  the  mills  of  practice,  not 
only  not  be  an  excellent  thing,  but  may  even  be  sub- 
versive of  the  very  germ  of  that  principle  itself. 
Figures  are  facts;  the  friction  of  humanity  is  a 
fact;  and  in  determining  these  issues  experience 
must  be  our  lodestar.  The  Government  do  not  in- 
tend to  lose  their  grip " 

It  was  at  this  point  that  another  elderly  school- 
boy called  out : 

"Limpets!" 

The  affect  of  this  ridiculous  interruption  was 
startling.  The  big  man  looked  at  the  interrupter 
pathetically.  It  was  obvious  that  his  concentra- 
tion had  gone.  Limpets !  He  appeared  to  be  turn- 
ing the  word  over  in  his  mind  and  considering  it. 
Limpets!  What  is  a  limpet?  Was  he  a  limpet? 
Were  the  Government  really  limpets?  Was  all 
mankind  limpets,  creatures  blindly  clinging  to  the 
rock  of  their  desires?  He  passed  his  hand  over 
the  back  of  his  skull  and  mumbled: 

"I  shall  endeavor  to  prove — 

But  no;  he  was  not  destined  to  prove  anything. 
Perhaps  we  none  of  us  ever  do.  The  papers  shook 
in  his  hand,  and  he  kept  on  turning  them  over  help- 
lessly. His  lips  moved  without  any  sound  coming. 
He  glanced  round  the  House,  a  dumb  appeal  and 
fear  gleaming  in  his  eyes.  He  probably  knew  then, 
but  he  hunched  his  shoulders  together,  as  though 
prepared  to  make  a  last  effort.  He  groped  for  his 
coloured  handkerchief  and  could  not  find  it.  The 
incident  annoyed  him  exceedingly.  He  was  per- 
spiring, and  he  wanted  to  wipe  his  brow.  He  did 


64  HEARTBEAT 

so  with  his  bare  hand.  Then  he;  glanced  at  the 
mace.  The  object  seemed  to  fascinate  him. 
was  obviously  immersed  in  considering  what  a 
mace  was,  why  it  was  there,  what  purpose  it  served. 
Very  interesting  thing,  a  mace  .  .  .  quite 
historical,  almost  a  limpet. 

Quite  suddenly,  without  any  explanation,  he  be- 
gan to  walk  out  of  the  House.  His  step  seemed 
firm,  as  though  he  had  a  definite  mission— perhaps 
he  was  going  to  get  his  coloured  handkerchief?  He 
had  not  gone  ten  paces,  however,  when  he  stopped 
and  sank  upon  his  knees.  Two  members  sprang 
forward  to  catch  him,  but  he  crashed  heavily  onto 
his  face.  They  picked  him  up  and  carried  him  out ; 
but  he  died  in  the  lobby  within  ten  minutes,  with- 
out regaining  consciousness. 

xxn. 

ON  a  dreary  December  morning  Barbara  found 
herself  seated  in  Lawyer  Bloor's  office  in  Old 
Burlington  Street.  She  was  fully  conscious  not 
only  of  the  perfection  of  her  toilette,  but  of  the 
effect  it  was  having  on  the  three  old  gentlemen  in 
the  room.  When  a  woman  is  among  enemies,  or 
when  she  has  to  grope  with  alien  difficulties,  it  is 
an  enormous  spur  to  her  confidence  to  know  that 
she  is  looking  her  best.  While  drawers  were  being 
unlocked  and  papers  rumpled  she  took  stock  of  her 
setting  and  of  the  other  occupants  of  the  room.  It 
was  a  little  difficult  to  do  this,  as  the  room  was 
nearly  dark,  and  she  occupied  the  swivel-chair  fac- 
ing the  light,  whilst  the  three  old  men  were  on  the 
other  side  of  the  table,  with  their  backs  to  the  light; 


DIASTOLE  65 

indeed,  one  of  them  was  sitting  in  the  angle  of  the 
fireplace.  She  knew  who  he  was.  He  was  old  Sir 
Anthony  Gyves.  He  had  retired  from  the  law,  but 
Mr.  Bloor,  the  principal  lawyer  for  the  trustees, 
explained  that  Sir  Anthony  had  been  kind  enough 
to  attend,  as  his  presence  was  necessary  for  the 
business  affecting  the  transference  of  certain  title- 
deeds.  He  had  been  Thomas  Powerscourt's  lawyer 
in  the  old  days. 

The  other  man  was  Mr.  Bloor 's  head  clerk. 

"I  don't  mind  you,"  thought  Barbara,  observ- 
ing the  old  clerk  rather  feebly  spreading  out  parch- 
ments before  his  chief.  "I  don't  think  Mr.  Bloor 's 
bad,  but  I  simply  hate  that  old  man  in  the  chimney- 
corner."  She  knew  that  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
her  greedily,  and  he  seemed  to  be  maliciously  en- 
joying himself.  He  was  very,  very  old,  a  little 
wheezy,  and  at  the  slightest  excuse  he  broke  into 
a  shrill  "He,  he,  he !"  at  the  same  time  bending  for- 
ward and  massaging  his  kneecaps, 

Mr.  Bloor  was  studiously  polite,  but  a  little  jaded 
and  impatient.  He  seemed  to  think  that  the 
whole  thing  was  an  unnecessary  waste  of  time,  and 
if  Barbara  hadn't  looked  very  pretty,  he  wouldn't 
have  troubled  to  attend.  He  looked  up  at  her  once 
and  remarked : 

"You  were  indisposed  and  unable  to  attend  the 
reading  of  your  father's  will?" 

"Yes." 

He  obviously  did  not  believe  her  answer,  but  he 
said  not  unkindly : 

"Would  you  like  me  to  read  it  to  you  now!" 

"It  doesn't  matter." 

The  fact  that  her  father  had  made  a  will  did  not 


66  HEARTBEAT 

impress  her  greatly.  She  knew  that  he  was  a  very 
wealthy  man,  and  that  she  was  his  only  child.  He 
would  naturally  leave  most  of  his  money  to  her.  The 
aunts  would  probably  get  some  of  it,  but — well,  she 
was  not  unmindful  now  of  the  power  of  money.  She 
had  seen  something  of  the  great  world.  One  had  to 
have  money,  crowds  of  money,  to  satisfy  one's  am- 
bitions. She  had  sometimes  lain  awake  at  night 
and  thought  of  all  the  things  she  meant  to  do.  Free- 
dom and  power,  running  theatres,  helping  people, 
wearing  lovely  frocks,  travelling.  There  would  be 
no  one  now  to  check  her  activities.  Oh,  glorious 
freedom!  Even  at  that  moment  little  visions  of  the 
days  to  come  were  dancing  before  her  eyes.  It  was 
the  voice  of  old  Sir  Anthony  which  broke  across 
these  dreams. 

' 'She  doesn't  want  to  hear  all  that  legal  stuff, 
Bloor.  He,  he  he !  Bead  out  to  the  girl  what  affects 
her." 

Mr.  Bloor  cleared  his  throat.  "I  think  I  ought 
to  tell  you,  Miss  Powerscourt,  that  your  father  made 
a  new  will  shortly  before  his  death.  Some  of  the 
hospitals  and  the  Law  Clerks'  Orphanage  benefit 
considerably.  Um — er — the  value  of  his  estate  was 
assessed  at  £421,000." 

What  was  this  all  about?  Hospitals  and  Law 
Clerks'  Orphanage?  What  right  had  her  father  to 
give  her  money  away  like  that?  A  cold  sense  of 
fear  crept  around  her  heart.  A  new  will  just  be- 
fore his  death?  Ah!  was  that  because— of  that 
song?  She  could  bear  the  suspense  no  longer.  She 
snapped  out: 

"Well,  what  did  he  leave  me?" 

"He,  he,  he!   That's   right,   Miss   Powerscourt. 


DIASTOLE  67 

Wake  these  old  lawyer-chaps  up.  Tell  the  girl 
what  she's  come  to  hear,  Bloor,  He,  he,  he!" 

"Under  the  terms  of  your  father's  will,  Miss 
Powerscourt,  the  trustees  are  empowered  to  pay 
you  interest  on  certain  specific  securities.  Where 
is  that  list,  Mr.  Green?  Ah,  yes;  here  we  are.  The 
interest  from  these  securities  will  amount  approxi- 
mately to  four  hundred  pounds  a  year,  less  certain 
legal  dues.  We  shall  require  your  signature  on 
several  of  these  papers." 

Four  hundred  a  year !  And  her  father  left  £421,- 
000.  What  did  it  mean?  Why  had  he  treated  her 
like  this?  It  couldn't  be  only  just  because  of  that 
song.  There  was  something  else,  something  deeper, 
more  vicious  at  the  back  of  it  all.  She  felt  the  tears 
swelling  in  her  eyes.  She  couldn't  get  her  voice. 
Suddenly  the  old  man  in  the  corner  lashed  the  air 
with  another  "He,  he,  he!"  The  sound  steadied 
her  like  the  whip  of  conflict.  She  was  alone  against 
these  old  men.  She  drew  within  herself  and  the 
lines  around  her  mouth  hardened.  She  stared  at 
Mr.  Bloor  and  said  deliberately: 

' '  Can  you  tell  me  how  this  is  ? " 

"Er — I  beg  your  pardon?  How  what  is,  Miss — 
er— ?" 

"How  it  is  that  my  father,  who  was  such  a  very 
rich  man,  should  leave  me,  his  only  child,  so  little  ? ' ' 

Lawyer  Bloor  sniffed  and  looked  a  little  uncom- 
fortable. It  was  his  business  to  interpret  and  ad- 
minister the  law,  not  to  indulge  in  emotional  specu- 
lations. There  was  always  a  danger  of  losing  one's 
dignity,  of  committing  oneself.  He  was  not  pre- 
pared for  such  a  leading  question;  neither  was  he 
prepared  for  the  incident  which  followed.  Barbara 


68  HEARTBEAT 

was  suddenly  upon  her  feet,  her  eyes  blazing  with 
anger.  She  shook  her  fist  at  the  room.  Her  voice 
was  shrill  and  menacing. 

"If  anyone  knows,  you  old  men  do.  Come  now,  I 
want  to  know — what  it  was  about  my  mother/' 

Lawyer  Bloor  looked  supplicatingly  at  Sir  An- 
thony. The  clerk  lowered  his  eyes  and  coughed 
nervously.  Sir  Anthony  looked  at  them  all,  and 
then  hissed  an  almost  inaudible  "He,  he,  he!"  up 
the  chimney.  Barbara  held  the  floor. 

"Why  did  he  never  speak  to  me  of  Mother?  Why 
did  my  aunts  freeze  up  when  I  mentioned  her?  Why 
was  there  no  portrait  or  memento  of  her  in  the 
house?  Why  did  he  forbid  me  to  learn  music  or 
acting  or  dancing?  Mother  was  an  actress,  I  know. 
What  was  wrong  with  that?  What  did  she  do  to 
him!" 

At  last  Mr.  Bloor  found  the  power  of  reply.  He 
was  inwardly  ruffled,  but  the  dignity  of  the  law 
must  be  upheld. 

"If  you  must  know,  Miss  Powerscourt,  your 
father  did  not  consider  that  your  Mother  acted  well 
by  him.  He  treated  her  with  every  kindness  and 
consideration,  and  she — did  not  reward  his  gen- 
erosity  " 

"What's  that?  Generosity!  Isn't  a  man  usually 
supposed  to  treat  his  wife  with  kindness  and  con- 
sideration? What  do  you  mean  by  reward?  What 
reward?" 

In  the  dead  stillness  which  followed,  Barbara's 
mind  was  occupied  with  desperate  imaginings  of 
the  past.  The  figure  in  the  chimney-corner  was 
watching  her  closely.  Mr.  Bloor  suddenly  snapped 
the  table-drawer  to;  then,  leaning  forward,  he  said: 


DIASTOLE  69 

"In  order  to  elucidate  what  must  appear  to  you 
certain  dubious  aspects  of  the  case,  I  may  as  well 
be  perfectly  candid,  Miss  Powerscourt.  Your  father 
and  mother  were  never  married." 

She  had  felt  this  coming,  but  the  shock  was  none 
the  less  unnerving.  Nevertheless  she  would  not  be 
unnerved.  She  had  got  to  cope  with  these  old  men. 
Her  father  and  mother  were  never  married!  In 
other  words,  her  father  had  probably  refused  to 
marry  her  mother.  He  came  of  the  governing  class ; 
her  mother  was  only  a  low-grade  actress.  Of  course 
he  wouldn't  marry  her.  But  he  had  been  very  kind, 
very  generous.  They  meant  that  he  had  paid  her 
well;  given  her  everything  except  his  good  name, 
and  she  had  treated  him  badly;  she  had  not  "re- 
warded his  generosity."  0  God!  it  was  horrible. 
She  struck  the  table  with  her  left  hand  and  hissed 
at  him : 

"She  couldn't  have  treated  him  badly  if  he  didn't 
marry  her." 

No  one  replied  to  this.  Man's  actions  are  con- 
trolled by  codes,  some  acknowledged,  some  only 
silently  implied.  Barbara  was  stung  by  a  sullen 
sense  of  injustice.  "I  was  part  of  the  price,"  she 
thought.  "He  looked  after  me,  fed  and  clothed  me, 
tried  to  make  me  a  lady.  Oh,  the  generous  gentle- 
man!" 

There  crept  into  her  face  an  expression  of  ugly 
hatred,  into  her  voice  that  hard  quality  which  the 
world  calls  "common."  She  raged  at  them: 

"How  could  she  have  wronged  him,  you  damned 
old  men?  You  make  the  laws.  You  look  after  each 
other.  A  girl  has  to  look  after  herself.  My  father 
was  a  cad!" 


70  HEARTBEAT 

There  followed  a  dreary  "He,  he,  he!"  from  the 
chimney  corner;  then  the  icy  percussion  of  Mr. 
Bloor's  voice: 

"We  are  not  here  to  argue  about  these  things, 
Miss — er — Powerscourt.  Your  father  was  a  great 
and  distinguished  man." 

"Great  and  distinguished,  eh?  Yes,  but  you 
can't  undo  the  evil  a  man  does  by  burying  him  in 
Westminister  Abbey." 

She  picked  up  her  muff  and  tugged  savagely  at 
her  furs. 

"I'm  going.  You  can  keep  your  filthy  money. 
Give  it  to  the  legal  orphans " 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"I'm  going  on  the  road,  like  my  Mother  did  be- 
fore me.  I  know  I  can  get  work.  Maybe  I'll  do 
well  and  justify  my  Mother,  after  the  vile  way  you 
all  treated  her. ' ' 

Lawyer  Bloor  looked  perturbed.  Any  scene  of 
human  passion  disgusted  him.  He  tapped  with  a 
pencil  upon  the  table.  He  fidgeted  and  began  to 
talk,  but  he  could  not  marshal  his  phrases  into  any 
definite  coherence. 

"You  must  understand — you  wished  us  to  be 
candid — we  are  naturally  distressed  that  you — 
these — er — unpleasant  revelations.  You  are,  of 
course,  entitled  to  act  as  you  like  in  the  matter. 
Our  business  is  merely  to  administer  the  law.  I 
would  advise  you — you  are  overwrought " 

Barbara  had  reached  the  door,  and  her  hand  was 
on  the  handle.  In  another  moment  she  would  have 
gone,  but  just  as  she  was  about  to  open  it,  the  shrill, 
cruel  laughter  of  old  Sir  Anthony  again  broke  out. 
The  sound  made  her  pause  and  look  round.  It  was 


DIASTOLE  71 

as  though  in  that  instant  she  saw  the  face  of  that 
heartless  world  she  was  about  to  throw  herself  into. 
It  wasn't  always  easy  for  a  girl  to  look  after  her- 
self. She  looked  furtively  out  of  the  window  and 
saw  the  dreary,  grey  street  below.  Suddenly  she 
pulled  off  her  glove  and  went  back  to  the  table. 

"I've  changed  my  mind,"  she  said.  "I  might  as 
well  have  that  money.  After  all,  why  shouldn't  he 
pay?" 

When  she  had  gone  the  hilarious  screams  of  old 
Sir  Anthony  followed  her  to  the  pavement.  The 
old  boy  was  immensely  ticked.  He  kept  pinching 
his  knees  and  nodding  his  hairless  skull. 

"By  God!  Bloor,  did  you  ever  see  such  a  little 
spitfire?  He,  he,  he!  The  very  spit  and  image  of 
her  mother. ' ' 

"I  only  remember  her  mother  vaguely,  Sir  An- 
thony. What  was  she  like?" 

"A  damn  fine  woman,  Bloor,  a  damn  fine  woman; 
the  spit  and  image  of  this  girl.  He,  he,  he ! " 

"You  knew  her  very  well,  I  suppose?" 

"I  ought  to.  He,  he,  he!  She  was  my  mistress 
for  some  time  after  Tom  Powerscourt  threw  her 
over.  A  damn  fine  mistress,  too.  He,  he,  he!" 

"Really!  You  surprise  me." 

"Ay,  and  this  girl  will  be  just  the  same — the  spit 
and  image  of  her  mother.  The  way  she  flew  out! 
Did  you  notice  it?  Gad!  If  I  was  a  young  man 
again!  He,  he,  he!" 


BOOK  II. 
SYSTOLE 


BOOK  II.— SYSTOLE. 


BARBAEA  let  herself  into  the  flat  at  Ashley  Gardens 
and,  with  a  theatrical  flourish,  threw  her  latchkey 
down  on  to  the  hall  table.  The  black  fur  stole  em- 
phasised the  square  set  of  her  little  chin.  She  held 
herself  erect,  and  her  eyes  were  bright  with  the 
light  of  battle. 

Without  removing  her  hat  or  furs  she  walked 
into  the  drawing-room.  The  two  aunts  were  busily 
engaged  looking  through  some  papers.  Without 
looking  up  Aunt  Laura  murmured: 

"Well,  dear?" 

Aunt  Jenny,  the  tip  of  her  small  tongue  moving 
up  and  down  mechanically  between  her  lips,  was 
adding  up  a  column  of  figures.  Both  the  old  ladies 
were  in  deepest  morning. 

"I've  put  the  latch-key  down  on  the  hall  table," 
Barbara  said  abruptly.  "I  shan't  be  requiring  it 
any  more. ' ' 

Aunt  Laura  looked  over  the  top  of  her  spectacles 
uncomprehendingly.  Why  wouldn't  Laura  want  a 
latch-key?  Aunt  Jenny  exploded  feebly: 

"There!  If  I  start  adding  up  from  the  top  it 
comes  to  one  thing.  If  I  start  adding  up  from  the 
bottom  it  comes  to  another.  What's  that,  dear?" 

"I  shan't  be  wanting  the  latch-key  any  longer. 
I'm  leaving  you.  I'm  going  to  live  with  Isabel 
Weare." 

73 


74  HEARTBEAT 

It  took  some  moments  for  the  significance  of  this 
announcement  to  sink  in,  and  when  it  did,  Barbara 
was  vaguely  amused  by  the  quality  of  its  reception. 
Both  of  the  old  ladies  protested  weakly.  Barbara 
mustn't  do  that.  She  was  too  young,  too  inexperi- 
enced. Was  she  unhappy?  Had  she  thought  of  her 
dear  father's  wishes?  Was  there  anything  they 
could  do?  Would  she  prefer  a  different  bedroom? 

"  They  're  enormously  relieved,"  thought  Bar- 
bara. "It's  just  what  they  wanted." 

"I've  got  a  cab  coming  at  four  o'clock,"  she  said. 
"Isabel  Weare's  flat  is  in  Northumberland  Street, 
Baker  Street — Saracen  Mansions,  number  twenty- 
three — in  case  you  want  me  for  anything." 

She  pronounced  the  latter  sentence  in  a  patron- 
ising way.  These  two  old  women  were  nothing  to 
her,  and  she  was  nothing  to  them.  Both  sides  knew 
it,  and  so  why  pretend?  She  understood  now  why 
they  had  never  been  intimate  with  her,  why  she  had 
never  felt  towards  them  any  blood  attraction.  They 
had  always  deplored  their  dear  and  brilliant  bro- 
ther's one  great  lack  of  judgment.  They  had  toler- 
ated her  for  his  sake.  But  now — well,  they  would, 
if  anything,  be  more  Powerscourty  than  ever.  They 
would  be  much  richer.  They  would  be  able  to — 
what  could  they  do  with  their  money,  after  all? 
subscribe  to  more  Bible  Societies,  patronise,  pose, 
rustle  about  in  rigid  silks,  and  try  to  sustain  the 
solemnity  of  the  Powerscourt  tradition.  And  she 
— she  would  take  up  the  stoiy  from  the  point  where 
her  mother  had  dropped  it.  In  any  case  she  did  not 
feel  towards  them  any  sense  of  gratitude  or  pity. 
The  smouldering  sense  of  outrage  had  reached  a 


SYSTOLE  75 

crisis.  She  rejoiced  that  the  issue  had  come  out 
into  the  open. 

Old  fools!  She  didn't  want  to  be  rude  to  them, 
they  were  too  old  and  pitiable.  To  their  protesta- 
tions she  made  no  reply.  She  walked  briskly  into 
her  own  room  and  packed  her  belongings.  At  four 
o'clock  the  cab  came.  A  man  and  one  of  the  maids 
helped  her  down  with  her  things.  When  all  was 
ready,  she  pecked  the  two  aunts  lightly  on  the  cheek 
and  said  "Good-bye." 

"You  must  come  and  see  us  as  often  as  you  can, 
Barbara,"  said  Jenny. 

She  said  yes  in  a  voice  that  meant  no,  looked  in 
the  mirror  to  arrange  her  hat,  jerkily  repeated, 
"Good-bye,"  and  then  walked  out. 

When  she  had  gone,  Aunt  Laura  removed  her 
spectacles  and  wiped  them  on  a  /faded  coloured 
handkerchief. 

"She's  the  spit  and  image  of  her  mother,"  she 
said  dispassionately. 

"Let's  hope  she  doesn't  go  the  same  way,"  an- 
swered Jenny. 

' '  Poor  Tom.    Eing  the  bell,  dear ;  we  '11  have  tea. ' ' 

n. 

ISABEL  WEAKE  was  a  girl  Barbara  had  met  at  George 
Champneys'  studio,  and  with  whom  she  had  formed 
that  kind  of  adoring  friendship  which  one  finds 
only  amongst  women  of  the  professional  classes. 
She  was  eight  years  older  than  Barbara,  a  fairly 
accomplished  singer  and  actress,  with  one  of  those 
pliable,  sympathetic  natures  of  which  all  the  world 
takes  advantage.  She  was  tall  and  rather  over-de- 


76  HEARTBEAT 

veloped,  with  a  dreamy  oval  face  also  inclined  to 
puffiness,  masses  of  light-brown  hair,  which  was  al- 
ways breaking  free.  She  had  those  appealing, 
slightly  persecuted  eyes  which  a  woman  of  that  kind 
often  has  when  experience  has  made  her  realise  that 
sex  is  an  ever-present  source  of  danger.  She  had 
been  made  love  to  so  persistently,  so  dangerously, 
so  cunningly,  that  she  had  come  to  live  in  a  buffer 
state  of  suspicion.  The  eyes  seemed  to  say:  "I 
can't  help  being  like  this.  I  love  everyone.  What 
is  it  you  really  want  with  me?" 

Men  instinctively  made  love  to  her,  and  she  had 
no  faculty  for  being  rude,  or  cruel,  or  unkind.  With 
women,  too,  she  was  extremely  popular.  Her  sim- 
plicity, good-nature  and  kindness  of  heart  were  ir- 
resistible. She  was  also  absentminded  and  always 
getting  into  scrapes.  They  called  her  "Old  Is."  She 
was  always  losing  her  purse,  or  her  umbrella,  for- 
getting to  turn  up  for  appointments,  being  late  at 
rehearsals,  completely  misinterpreting  meanings; 
and  yet  everybody  forgave  her.  Dear  "Old  Is" 
could  do  no  wrong.  It  was  only  when  she  was  ac- 
tually performing  that  she  appeared  to  be  entirely 
compos  mentis,  and  then  she  displayed  a  quite  sur- 
prising vivacity,  and  her  light  mezzo-soprano  voice 
had  a  rich,  moving  quality.  It  is  probable  that,  had 
it  not  been  for  her  absent-mindedness  and  her  per- 
functory treatment  of  managers  and  producers,  she 
would  have  climbed  higher,  instead  of  interminably 
walking  on  or  touring  with  musical  comedy  parties 
and  pierrot  troupes. 

The  first  time  Barbara  met  her,  and  heard  her 
speak,  and  saw  her  move,  she  was  consumed  with 
a  great  desire  to  hug  and  kiss  her.  She  gradually 


SYSTOLE  77 

came  to  adore  her  like  a  lover.  She  listened  for 
her  footsteps,  hung  upon  her  words,  devoured  her 
with  her  eyes.  Every  little  thing  about  Isabel  was 
wonderful — her  clothes,  her  shoes,  even  the  scent 
she  used  rather  lavishly.  Barbara  copied  her  as 
unobtrusively  as  possible.  She  dreamed  of  being 
like  Isabel.  She  dreamed  of  living  with  Isabel — 
having  her  as  her  dearest  friend  for  ever,  and  ever, 
and  ever.  All  the  other  friendships  of  her  life  paled 
into  insignificance.  Cicely  and  Jean  appeared 
like  dimly-remembered  dolls,  Billy  Hamaton  a  dis- 
turbing image,  a  puppet  recalling  an  experience  of 
which  she  was  a  little  ashamed — poor  Billy!  Her 
father  was  a  forbidding  nightmare;  all  the  rest 
were  marionettes,  no  one  mattered,  nothing  count- 
ed at  all  except — Isabel  Weare  and  herself.  She 
stood  out  like  a  statute  of  Liberty  welcoming  Bar- 
bara to  a  new  world.  All  its  delights,  achievements, 
romance,  and  mysteries  were  embodied  in  Isabel 
Weare.  She  did  not  talk  of  her  love-affairs,  but 
Barbara  knew  that  they  had  been  many,  profound 
and  bitter.  She  had  tasted  of  the  cup  of  life,  and  it 
had  not  poisoned  the  simplicity  of  her  outlook.  She 
was  only  a  little  more  bewildered,  more  alert  to 
danger,  and  more  tolerant  of  the  faults  of  others. 
It  took  Barbara  a  long  time  to  establish  any 
special  possessive  claims  over  Isabel.  She  was  so 
kind  and  affectionate  to  everyone.  At  these  mani- 
festations to  others  Barbara  would  be  wildly  jeal- 
ous. She  hated  these  other  girls  who  kissed  "Old 
Is"  and  called  her  darling.  She  hated  the  men  who 
flirted  with  her,  held  her  hand  an  unnecessarily  long 
time  and  called  her  "my  dear."  At  such  times  she 
would  sulk,  drive  her  nails  into  her  palms,  and 
crave  for  violence  and  tears. 


78  HEARTBEAT 

Her  insistence  and  her  passion  eventually  carried 
the  day.  She  hung  round  Isabel  like  a  faithful  little 
dog.  She  followed  her  about,  waited  on  her,  flatter- 
ed her,  gave  her  little  presents.  But  her  position 
was  not  finally  established  till  one  evening  when  she 
followed  Isabel  to  her  flat  and  wept.  She  wept  and 
wept  and  hugged  her  large  mothering  friend.  Isabel 
was  bewildered,  and  kept  whispering : 

"What  is  it?   What's  the  trouble,  my  darling  1" 

This  occurred  before  her  father's  death,  before 
she  knew  the  truth  of  her  own  position.  She  had, 
indeed,  no  especial  reason  to  weep.  She  just  felt 
lonely,  desperate,  very  much  in  love  with  Isabel, 
jealous,  neglected,  wanting  sympathy,  wanting  to 
know  things,  shut  off  from  life.  The  older  woman 
comforted  her  in  the  best  way  she  could.  She  un- 
derstood women  better  than  men,  and  perhaps  at 
some  time  she  had  passed  through  similar  experi- 
ences. 

"There's  nothing  the  matter — I'm  only  just 
silly,"  was  Barbara's  constant  explanation.  So 
Isabel  made  some  tea,  and  talked  about  Mr.  Champ- 
neys,  and  Irene  Frewin,  and  Lettice  Strangeways, 
and  religion,  and  love,  and  frocks.  In  half-an- 
hour's  time  Barbara  was  laughing  and  chatting 
volubly. 

It  was  a  different  Barbara  who  came  to  her  and 
told  her  about  her  father's  death  and  the  truth 
about  herself.  There  were  no  tears  this  time ;  only 
a  kind  of  ice-cold  pugnacity,  almost  a  sense  of  re- 
lief and  freedom. 

"I  want  to  get  on,"  was  the  outcome  of  her  com- 
plex confession. 

"I'm  going  to  cut  myself  off  from  all  these  as- 


SYSTOLE  79 

sociations.  The  principal  feeling  I  have,  Isabel 
darling,  is  that  I  just  feel  sick.  It's  funny  how  any 
great  emotion  always  affects  my  tummy  first.  I'm 
sure  I  should  be  sick  on  a  honeymoon. ' ' 

Isabel  thought  the  matter  over  for  some  mo- 
ments ;  then  she  said : 

" Would  you  like  to  come  and  share  my  flat? — if 
you'll  promise  not  to  be  sick." 

Barbara  stared  at  her  friend  with  eyes  that  could 
not  control  their  amazement  and  delight.  Then  she 
gurgled,  "Oo — ooh! — you  don't  mean  it,  do  you, 
Isabel?" 

Of  course  Isabel  meant  it. 

"Can  I  live  on  four  hundred  a  year  if  I  don't  get 
any  work  to  do?" 

Of  course  she  could  live  on  four  hundred  a  year, 
and  of  course  she  would  get  work.  Mr.  Champneys 
thought  a  lot  of  her,  and  so  did  all  the  others.  There 
would  be  no  difficulty  at  all.  They  would  keep  a 
little  maid,  so  that  when  one  was  on  tour  there 
would  always  be  someone  in  the  flat.  Barbara  could 
not  believe  her  good  fortune.  She  hugged  and  kiss- 
ed her  new  friend  with  such  an  excess  of  frenzy 
that  she  began  to  feel  sick  once  more. 

"I  must  go  for  a  long  walk  to  calm  down.  I  will 
come  in  on  Thursday,  darling." 

And  so  on  that  Thursday  she  gave  up  her  latch- 
key to  the  aunts,  and  drove  with  all  her  property 
to  Northumberland  Street. 

m. 

ISABEL  at  that  time  had  a  small  part  in  a  musical 
comedy  at  Daly's.  She  was  getting  a  fairly  good 


80  HEARTBEAT 

salary,  and  the  play  had  been  running  for  six 
months  and  promised  to  run  for  years;  conse- 
quently, with  Barbara's  four  hundred  a  year  the  two 
girls  were  comparatively  well  off. 

"You're  a  lucky  child,"  Isabel  said.  "There 
aren't  many  girls  in  our  profession  with  four  hun- 
dred a  year  to  fall  back  on.  There  aren't  many  with 
anything  at  all.  But  you  take  my  advice,  dear,  and 
keep  it  dark.  They  don't  like  it  if  they  think  you've 
got  money.  They  look  on  you  as  an  amateur,  taking 
the  bread  out  of  working-girls'  mouths." 

"If  I  had  four  thousand  a  year — which  I  ought  to 
—I  should  still  go  on  the  stage,  darling." 

"Well,  you  keep  it  dark,  darling." 

The  first  person  Barbara  visited  was  naturally 
George  Champneys,  who  was  very  interested  and 
amused  at  the  earnestness  of  her  resolution.  Most 
certainly  he  would  do  what  he  could.  He  had  prom- 
ised, and  he  would  stick  to  his  promise.  He  would 
try  to  get  her  on  in  London  as  soon  as  possible.  In 
the  meantime  she  must  get  some  hard,  practical  ex- 
perience. In  a  month's  time  he  was  sending  a  pier- 
rot  troupe  out  on  short  runs,  a  week  here  and  there, 
and  then  back,  another  week  later  on,  and  so  on. 
would  she  care  to  be  in  it?  The  pay  was  negligible, 
but  the  experience  would  be  good. 

Would  she  care  to  be  in  it!  Barbara  glowed 
with  excitement.  At  the  very  first  bound  she  was 
to  become  a  professional  actress,  with  a  name  and  a 
salary,  perhaps  Press  notices,  and  bouquets  from 
unknown  admirers. 

"What  are  you  going  to  call  yourself?"  George 
remarked.  "I  don't  think  Barbara  Powerscourt's 
very  good — too  long.  Besides " 


SYSTOLE  81 

"Exactly — besides,"  quoth  Barbara,  "I  want  to 
drop  the  Powerscourt  altogether." 

"Fancy  that!" 

"Fancy  what?  Oh,  Mr.  Champneys,  Fancy's  a 
nice  name." 

"Fancy's  a  very  nice  name.  Now,  what  shall  it 
be?  Fancy  what?" 

"No,  not  Fancy  Watt." 

"I  know." 

"What?" 

"Fancy  Telling." 

"Oo — oooh!  Yes,  that  would  be  rather  quaint, 
wouldn't  it?  Fancy  Telling.  I  like  it." 

"Fancy  Telling  tops  the  bill— this  week  at  The 
Grand,  Croydon.  Yes,  that's  very  good.  George, 
my  boy,  I  congratulate  you.  Don't  forget,  Miss 
Telling,  on  the  day  of  judgment,  to  let  them  know 
that  it  was  I  who  invented  your  name." 

"Fancy  telling!" 

"Come  in  on  Monday,  and  I'll  get  you  to  sign 
a  piece  of  paper,  old  girl.  Carter  is  handling  this 
company.  I  expect  they'll  pay  you  two  pounds  or 
two  pounds  ten  a  week.  We'll  push  you  on  as  fast 
as  we  can. ' ' 

He  pressed  her  hand  and  patted  her  shoulders  as 
he  showed  her  out. 

And  so  Fancy  returned  to  Northumberland  Street 
in  a  wild  state  of  excitement.  The  metamorphosis 
was  complete.  She  had  new  friends,  a  new  interest 
in  life,  a  new  job,  and  a  new  name." 

"You're  a  lucky  little  devil,"  Isabel  remarked 
when  she  emerged  from  her  friend's  embrace.  "I 
never  had  anyone  to  help  me  when  I  started — not 
a  friend  or  a  bean.  I  used  to  traipse  round  calling 


82  HEARTBEAT 

on  dirty,  fat  little  agents,  who  used  to  insist  on 
holding  my  hand  all  the  time  I  talked.  Some  of 
them  used  to — oh,  they  were  swine!" 

4 'Oh,  Isabel,  how  rotten!  People  don't  do  that 
sort  of  thing  now,  do  they,  darling?" 

"Oh  no,  my  dear,  only— pretty  frequently.  It's 
lucky  you've  got  me  to. look  after  you,  and  that  you 
struck  George  C.  straight  away. 

"He's  a  dear.    I  love  him." 

"You've  got  a  very  passionate  nature,  Barbara. 
You  must  watch  out  that  it  doesn't  get  you  into 
trouble.  When  you've  had  men  try  to  maul  you 
about  as  long  as  I  have  you'll  quiet  down.  Let's 
have  lunch;  I'm  hungry." 

Oh,  those  glorious  days! — all  too  short  for  the 
wonders  and  portents  which  crowded  upon  her. 
Everything  was  coloured  by  the  glamour  of  dis- 
covery and  anticipation.  She  thrilled  at  the  vision 
of  Isabel  sitting  up  in  bed,  in  a  dressing-gown, 
drinking  tea.  Washing  up  the  breakfast  things,  be- 
cause the  maid  had  failed  to  turn  up,  was  a  positive 
ecstasy.  Making  toast,  cleaning  Isabel's  shoes, 
ordering  groceries,  rearranging  the  sitting-room, 
mending  some  under-linen  of  Isabel's,  darning  her 
own  stockings — all  these  things  were  pleasures,  of 
which  she  sometimes  felt  quite  unworthy.  And 
then  the  adventurous  world  outside.  The  busy 
streets  brimming  with  life,  the  shops  full  of  things 
she  meant  to  buy  one  day — lovely  frocks  and  hats, 
old  furniture,  precious  stones,  jewels,  vanity  bags 
— all  for  Isabel  and  herself.  If  only  her  father  .  .  . 

Then,  most  important  and  thrilling  of  all,  meet- 
ing with  Mr.  Carter,  the  producer.  Rehearsing, 
really  rehearsing  a  proper  professional  perform- 


SYSTOLE  83 

ance,  glancing  at  the  other  girls — and  men;  trying 
to  appear  as  though  used  to  it,  every  day  picking 
up  a  little  more  of  the  slang  of  the  profession,  get- 
ting familiar  with  the  terms  which  governed  this 
delightful  world — afterwards  the  streets  again,  rich 
women  in  furs  and  motor-cars,  jolly  men  walking 
furtively,  looking  at  her  inquiringly,  poor  old  men 
playing  hurdy-gurdies,  giving  them  sixpences  and 
shillings,  the  tears  swelling  to  her  eyes.  Tea  with 
Isabel,  Isabel  looking  scrumptious,  rather  languid 
and  cosy,  in  a  bright  jade-green  kimono.  Talk,  de- 
lightful talk,  all  about  people,  and  the  profession, 
and  the  things  that  may  happen  to  two  girls  with 
the  world  before  them.  The  glow  of  sunset  on  the 
wet  pavement  below.  Isabel's  chop  at  six-thirty  and 
a  raw  egg  for  Barbara.  Then  going  down  to  the 
theatre  with  Isabel  on  a  motor-bus,  getting  off  at 
Piccadilly  Circus  and  walking  along  to  the  stage- 
door  at  Daly's — sometimes  being  smuggled  in.  Oh, 
that  was  joy  indeed!  The  narrow  stone  staircase 
and  passages,  curious  people  in  various  stages  of 
make-up.  Small  boys  calling  out; 

"Beginners,  please!" 

Isabel's  dressing-room,  with  two  other  real  act- 
resses in  it,  the  smell  of  grease-paint  and  powder, 
the  bright  glow  of  the  mirrors. 

Then  out  in  the  street  once  more,  the  myriad  col- 
oured lights  and  signs  of  Leicester  Square,  the  en- 
veloping mystery  of  early  darkness,  with  its  pro- 
vocative, mysterious  appeal.  She  would  hurry  back 
to  the  little  flat  then,  rather  scared,  and  eager  for 
escape.  The  flat  seemed  melancholy  without  Isabel, 
so  she  would  rush  to  the  upright  piano,  and  with 
puckered  brows  and  intense  concentration,  practise 


84  HEARTBEAT 

the  songs  Mr.  Carter  had  given  her  to  sing  for  the 
tour.  Then  she  would  curl  up  in  front  of  the  fire 
and  read,  or  stare  at  the  embers  and  dream  of  the 
great  and  wonderful  world  awaiting  her.  It  would 
be  nearly  twelve  before  Isabel  came  in.  At  the 
click  of  the  door  she  would  jump  up,  rush  out  and 
kiss  her  friend,  take  off  her  cloak,  fetch  her  slippers 
and  the  tray  of  stout  and  sandwiches,  ensconce  her 
comfortably  in  the  easy  chair.  Then  she  would 
brew  herself  some  cocoa,  kneel  on  the  tuffet,  ask  for 
news,  and  hungrily  worship  her  goddess. 

"The  young  man  who  marries  you  will  have  a 
hot  time,"  said  Isabel  on  one  of  these  occasions. 

"I  don't  like  men.  I'm  never  going  to  marry," 
answered  Barbara. 

"That's  right,  darling,  don't  you  do  it.  Will  you 
be  an  angel  and  go  and  fetch  me  a  hanky  from  my 
room?" 

IV.      -,, 

JUST  before  the  tour  started  there  was  a  disquiet- 
ing irruption  in  the  flat.  Isabel  developed  a  persis- 
tent lover.  He  was  a  dark,  heavily-built  man,  about 
forty  years  of  age,  and  the  owner  of  a  successful 
business  in  Bloomsbury,  concerned  with  trimmings, 
gimp,  buttons  and  embroidery.  He  called  at  all 
kinds  of  inconvenient  hours  of  the  day,  and  began 
to  see  Isabel  home  at  night.  He  spoke  very  little, 
and  then  in  a  soft  mellow  voice.  Barbara  suspected 
that  he  was  less  silent  when  she  was  not  present. 
He  had  a  way  of  staring  at  her  with  an  expression 
of  amused  contempt  thoughtfully  tugging  at  his 
black  moustache.  His  eyes  seemed  to  say : 

"Can't  you  see,  you  little  nuisance,  that  two  is 
company,  three's  none?" 


SYSTOLE  85 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  Mr.  Basil  Cleethorpe — 
for  such  was  his  name — roused  in  Barbara's  bosom 
feelings  of  violent  jealousy.  Before  a  week  had 
passed  she  could  have  killed  this  man  who  had  come 
between  her  and  Isabel.  At  first  she  was  polite  to 
him,  then  curt,  and  then  definitely  rude.  But  she 
recognised  in  him  one  of  the  strong,  silent  species, 
or  perhaps  not  strong  and  silent  so  much  as  thick- 
skinned  and  dull.  He  withstood  her  attacks  with 
amused  indifference.  She  did  not  interest  him.  His 
quarry  was  Isabel,  and  he  would  take  infinite 
trouble  to  secure  her  company,  and  that  alone. 

The  alarming  aspect  of  the  case  was  that  Isabel 
seemed  not  only  to  tolerate  him  but  positively  to 
like  him.  She  went  out  to  lunches  and  dinners  with 
him,  and  left  Barbara  to  shift  for  herself.  And 
jealousy  and  suspicion  gnawed  at  her  vitals.  Isabel 
didn't  love  her.  Isabel  had  deceived  her.  What  did 
she  mean  that  time  when  she  talked  about  being 
" mauled  about  by  men?"  How  loathsome  the  whole 
thing  was ! 

She  would  return  from  rehearsal  and  find  Isabel 
and  Basil — awful  name! — sitting  side  by  side  on 
the  Chesterfield  in  the  firelight.  Isabel  would  be 
just  as  affectionate  to  her,  but  she  was  tortured  by 
the  suspicion  that  her  presence  was  unwelcome. 
Isabel  took  to  being  out  more,  and  sometimes  re- 
turning at  an  unearthly  hour  in  the  morning.  This 
couldn't  last;  something  would  have  to  be  done. 

She  waited  till  three  nights  before  the  tour  start- 
ed, and  then  she  determined  to  have  it  out.  She 
waited  up  for  Isabel,  who  arrived  home  at  a  quar- 
ter past  one.  Then  she  followed  her  into  the  sitting- 
room  and  pulled  her  down  on  to  the  Chesterfield. 


86  HEARTBEAT 

"Where  have  you  been,  Isabel  darling?'* 

Isabel  yawned  sleepily. 

"Been,  my  dear?  Oh,  I've  been  having  supper 
with  Basil." 

Barbara's  breath  came  in  little  gasps. 

"Are  you  very  fond  of  him,  Isabel?" 

"B?  Oh,  yes,  he's  a  nice  boy." 

"Do  you  love  him?  Are  you  going  to  marry  him? 
Are  you  going  to  leave  me,  Isabel?" 

The  older  woman  held  her  away,  and  looked 
slightly  bewildered. 

"Love  him!  Marry  him!  Oh,  dear!  what  a  queer 
child  you  are!  Haven't  you  ever  had  a  boy?" 

"No." 

"Well,  you  get  one,  my  dear.  They  help  to  pass 
the  time.  You've  only  got  to — look  after  yourself, 
not  lose  your  head,  if  you  know  what  I  mean. ' ' 

That  phrase  again — "A  girl  has  got  to  look  after 
herself!"  Isabel  was  still  speaking  in  her  cosy  en- 
veloping voice. 

"I'm  very,  very  fond  of  you,  Fancy  darling.  Don't 
be  silly — all  this  talk  about  leaving  you.  There's 
one  thing  we  must  have  clear,  though.  Living  like 
this  together,  we  must  each  be  free  to  do  what  we 
like.  I  wouldn't  be  jealous  of  you,  if  you  had  a 
boy.  It's  natural." 

"You're  really  only  playing  with  him,  then?" 

"We  each  know  what  we're  doing,  darling.  How 
did  the  rehearsal  go  to-day?" 

So  that  was  it.  On  her  pillow  that  night  little 
Fancy  Telling  wept,  almost  wishing,  for  the  first 
time  since  her  new  departure,  that  she  was  once 
more  Barbara  Powerscourt. 


SYSTOLE  87 

V. 

THE  tour,  which  opened  at  Harrogate,  was  also 
rather  in  the  nature  of  a  disillusionment.  In  some 
respects  it  was  almost  a  triumph.  They  played  to 
good  houses.  The  programme  was  a  clever  pro- 
duction, the  joint  work  of  George  Champneys  and 
Mr.  Birtles.  Her  own  part  in  it  was  by  no  means 
negligible,  and  she  carried  it  through  with  consider- 
able success — indeed,  she  was  surprised  how  easily 
the  whole  thing  came  to  her,  and  how  the  people  ap- 
plauded her.  But  the  company  she  found  anything 
but  companionable.  The  men  were  always  making 
vulgar  jokes  and  suggestive  remarks,  and  she  re- 
sented their  over-familiarity.  Between  the  shows 
their  principal  interests  appeared  to  be  horse  rac- 
ing, cards  and  beer.  The  women  erred  by  applaud- 
ing and  approving  the  men's  behaviour,  and  by  be- 
ing jealous  and  catty  to  each  other,  and  to  Barbara. 
Mr.  Carter,  the  principal,  was  far  less  vulgar  than 
the  other  men,  but  he  was  inordinately  vain,  jeal- 
ous, and  self-centred.  On  the  stage  he  was  an  ex- 
cellent comedian,  off  it  he  was  self-conscious  and 
awkward. 

The  only  member  of  the  company  with  whom  Bar- 
bara struck  up  any  kind  of  friendship  was  Angela 
Lupin,  the  accompanist,  a  solemn,  sallow-faced  girl, 
with  short  black  hair,  and  no  sense  of  humor.  She 
had  been  a  student  at  the  Royal  Academy  of  Music. 
She  confessed  to  Barbara  that  the  whole  pierrot 
performance  bored  her  to  tears.  She  played  the 
accompaniments  because  she  had  to  earn  money. 
Her  career  at  the  Academy  had  been  cut  short  by 
the  death  of  her  father,  a  clever  and  thriftless 


88  HEARTBEAT 

journalist,  who  had  left  her  mother  and  herself 
penniless.  She  was  being  paid  two  pounds  a  week, 
a  goodly  portion  of  which  was  regularly  despatched 
to  her  mother.  Barbara  discovered  that  Angela 's 
meals  consisted  almost  exclusively  of  tea  and  bread- 
and-butter.  It  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  had 
come  up  against  real  want,  and  the  spectacle  sick- 
ened and  shook  her.  Poor  sallow-faced  child !  How 
unfair  it  all  was !  With  her  four  hundred  a  year  and 
her  own  small  salary,  and  no  one  else  to  spend  it 
on,  Barbara  realised  that  she  was  an  enormously 
wealthy  woman.  Henceforth  she  insisted  on  stand- 
ing Angela  lunches  and  teas  and  dinners.  She 
bought  her  fruit  and  eggs  and  bottles  of  stout.  At 
the  same  time  she  followed  IsabePs  advice  and  kept 
quiet  about  her  own  private  income.  Sometimes  she 
imagined  that  Angela  regarded  her  suspiciously,  but 
the  child  was  too  hungry  to  care. 

The  party  went  on  to  Leeds,  Huddersfield,  Hull, 
and  "Whitby.  Added  to  the  nervous  discomforts  of 
this  first  tour  was  the  constant  worry  as  to  what 
was  happening  to  Isabel.  Barbara  was  always 
dreaming  of  the  awful  black  Basil,  grinning  at  her 
superciliously.  He  would  be  taking  advantage  of 
her  absence.  He  would  spend  half  the  day  in  the 
flat,  sitting  on  her  chairs,  using  her  things,  perhaps 
resting  on  her  bed!  Oh,  what  could  Isabel  see  in 
him?  A  boy,  indeed!  Perhaps  at  that  very  moment 
he  was  "mauling  Isabel  about!" 

Was  it  natural  to  have  "boys"  to  be  mauled 
about  indiscriminately?  A  fierce  resentment  at  the 
idea  stirred  within  her.  Was  she  different  from 
those  other  girls?  Certainly  all  the  girls  in  this 
company  seemed  to  be  boy-mad.  They  chopped 


SYSTOLE  89 

and  changed  about,  squabbled  and  flirted  and  made 
it  up  quite  amicably  over  tankards  of  beer.  She 
would  never  be  able  to  do  that.  She  didn't  care  for 
"boys" — not  in  that  sense.  Of  course  there  was 
that  one  wonderful  person  somewhere  in  the  world; 
that  would  be  quite  different.  A  sudden  fear  seized 
her.  Her  mother  ?  Was  she  a  woman  who  was  boy- 
mad?  Was  her  father  one  of  her  mother's  "boys," 
and  that  was  why  he  treated  her  like  that?  Oh,  no, 
no — she  thought  of  those  letters.  They  were  not  the 
letters  of  these  fly-by-nights.  Whatever  the  true 
circumstances  of  the  story  were,  one  fact  stood  out 
poignantly — her  mother  had  suffered.  The  capac- 
ity for  suffering  is  one  of  the  acid  tests  of  charac- 
ter. It  is  only  profound  people  who  can  suffer. 
Girls  like  Maisie  Jewel,  the  leading  comedienne, 
were  capable  of  fits  of  the  blues,  of  peevishness, 
jealousy,  bad  temper,  but  a  little  flattery  or  a  pint 
of  beer  would  wash  it  all  away.  They  could  not 
suffer. 

When  the  five-weeks'  tour  was  over  the  company 
were  to  return  to  London,  and  they  were  not  to  go 
out  again  for  another  three  weeks.  Reacting  from 
the  disappointments  of  her  first  experience,  Bar- 
bara determined  to  make  the  best  of  things. 

"I'm  Fancy  Telling,  not  Barbara  Powerscourt, " 
she  repeated  to  herself.  "I'm  going  to  get  on.  Mr. 
Champneys  said  it  wouldn't  be  much  of  a  show,  but 
that  it  would  be  a  good  experience.  I  must  work 
and  study  and  find  out  things." 

At  Leeds  she  had  quite  a  personal  success,  one 
of  her  songs,  "The  Garden  of  Regrets,"  seeming  to 
.be  the  most  popular  item  on  the  programme.  It 
was  very  much  to  her  surprise,  therefore,  that  on 


90  HEARTBEAT 

the  last  night  Mr.  Carter  took  her  on  one  side,  and 
said: 

"Oh,  we're  making  a  few  changes  at  Hudders- 
field,  Miss  Telling.  We've  got  some  more  comic 
stuff  to  work  in.  I'm  afraid  we  shall  have  to  cut 
out  'The  Garden  of  Regrets'." 

For  an  instant  she  was  about  to  protest  violently. 
Then  she  reflected:  "What  does  it  matter?  Carter's 
no  one.  I'm  out  for  bigger  game." 

She  contented  herself  by  remarking  bitterly: 

"I  suppose  it  did  go  rather  well." 

And  then  she  turned  away  and  left  him  to  ponder 
the  insinuation  at  his  leisure.  The  result  made  him 
her  enemy,  for  the  rest  of  the  tour. 

VI. 

AT  the  end  of  five  weeks  the  company  returned  to 
town,  and  Barbara  to  Northumberland  Street.  There 
she  found  that  her  worst  suspicions  were  to  be  con- 
firmed. The  black  Basil  was  still  much  in  evidence. 
On  the  other  hand,  she  could  not  but  be  moved  by 
the  warmth  of  Isabel's  reception.  Isabel  was  gen- 
uinely pleased  to  see  her.  She  hugged  her  and 
cross-examined  her  about  every  little  detail  of  the 
tour.  She  was  a  dear  old  darling — Isabel,  too  easy- 
going, almost  incomprehensible.  Barbara,  like 
many  young  people  with  definite  ambitions  and  in- 
definite ideals,  was  beginning  to  learn  that  one  can- 
not interpret  anyone  else's  visions  through  the  light 
of  one's  own  eyes.  She  had  lain  awake  at  night, 
pitying  Isabel,  dreaming  all  kinds  of  disturbing 
dreams  about  her,  but  when  she  once  more  was  in 
heil  society  she  -found  her  quite  happy  and  un- 


SYSTOLE  91 

changed.  She  ;was  certainly  not  being  worried  by 
anything.  It  comforted  Barbara,  therefore,  to  con- 
clude that  Basil  was  only  an  interlude,  in  spite  of  his 
prehensile  grip  upon  her  friend's  affections. 

The  crust  was  already  hardening.  So  long  as 
Isabel  loved  her  it  was  not  her  business  to  inter- 
fere with  her  sex  adventures.  She  knew  from  what 
Isabel  had  told  her  that  men  were  transitory  expe- 
riences. She  busied  herself  in  the  flat,  revelling  in 
the  crumbs  of  Isabel's  society  which  fell  from  the 
rich  button-and-gimp  man's  table.  After  all,  he  was 
not  there  all  day — she  had  breakfast  with  Isabel, 
and  all  morning,  and  very  often  a  good  part  of  the 
afternoon ;  and  she  could  still  sew  and  mend  for  Isa- 
bel, and  write  her  letters  and  run  her  errands ;  she 
could  still  hug  her,  and  listen  to  her  deep  lazy  voice 
talking  familiarly  about  "May" — May  being  no  less 
a  person  than  May  Mendelssohn,  the  leading  lady 
at  Daly's.  Isabel  knew  all  these  people,  and  always 
referred  to  them  by  their  Christian  names.  It  added 
a  piquant  thrill  to  their  friendship.  To  think  that 
she,  Barbara — no,  Fancy  Telling — an  ingenue  of 
five  weeks'  experience,  lived  with  a  girl  who  re- 
ferred to  ,May  Mandelssohn  as  "May"!  May,  an 
almost  inaccessible  goddess,  who  drove  to  the  theatre 
in  a  motor-car  was  always  having  her  photo- 
graph in  the  illustrated  papers,  supped  at  the  Savoy 
with  the  scions  of  the  aristocracy,  lived  in  a  large 
house  near  the  park,  kept  several  servants  of  her 
own,  had  been  married  once,  and  had  divorced  her 
husband  when  she  was  twenty-two,  and,  above  all, 
sang  and  danced  and  acted  divinely.  Would  such 
a  destiny  ever  be  the  lot  of  Fancy  Telling? 
She  tried  to  analyse  this  fate.  She,  too,  passion- 


92  HEARTBEAT 

ately  desired  to  see  her  photographs  in  the  illus- 
trated papers,  to  drive  to  the  theatre  in  a  motor- 
car, to  sup  at  the  Savoy,  to  have,  a  house  and  serv- 
ants of  her  own;  more  especially  did  she  passion- 
ately desire  to  sing,  and  dance,  and  act  divinely.  But 
she  had  no  desire  to  marry  and  divorce ;  she  had  no 
desire  to  be  " mauled  about  by  men."  Her  erotic 
impulses  were  at  that  time  entirely  unawakened. 

The  day  after  her  return  she  repaired  to  George 
Champneys',  and  gave  him  a  voluble  account  of 
the  tour,  not  excluding  the  incident  about  "The 
Garden  of  Regrets. ' ' 

The  large  man  regarded  her  quizzically,  and 
nodded  his  head. 

"I'm  afraid  Carter  is  like  that,  my  dear.  I'm 
sorry.  I'll  speak  to  him  about  it,  but  I  can't  insist. 
It's  in  our  contract  that  he  has  complete  control  of 
the  programme.  Don't  you  worry.  I'll  soon  have 
you  in  something  better.  How  have  you  been?" 

"I  wish  he  would  take  me  seriously,"  thought 
Barbara.  "He  likes  me,  but  he  treats  me  like  a 
kid." 

Champneys  was  certainly  very  paternal  and  kind, 
but  he  was  a  little  preoccupied  concerning  a  big  new 
London  production.  He  did  treat  her  like  a  kid. 
But  how  else  can  one  treat  twenty-one?  He  himself 
was  forty-five,  at  the  very  zenith  of  his  fame,  his 
palate  a  little  jaded  by  the  flavour  of  every  human 
experience.  He  had  met  many  young  girls  like  Bar- 
bara, and  he  liked  them  and  treated  them  all  kindly. 
Bless  their  hearts !  He  would  like  to  give  them  all 
leads  and  big  salaries,  but — even  kindness  of  heart 
has  its  physical  limitations.  A  secretary  was  fidg- 
eting with  papers;  a  telephone  bell  went. 


SYSTOLE  93 

"Come  and  see  me  again  soon,  La  pauvre  inno- 
cente,"  he  said  genially.  Barbara  thanked  him  and 
went.  When  she  got  to  the  street  a  little  lump 
came  in  her  throat. 

"It's  not  going  to  be  so  darned  easy,"  she  thought. 
"I  can't  keep  on  worrying  him." 

This  intermittent  tour  of  the  Pierrot  troupe  con- 
tinued for  eight  months.  It  was  a  mixed  experience. 
Mr.  iCarter  had  his  knife  in  her,  and  reduced  her 
part  in  the  performance  till  it  became  almost  negli- 
gible. The  other  men  tried  the  "mauling"  process, 
but  finding  that  she  did  not  respond,  they  treated 
her  with  contempt.  The  other  girls  were  jealous  of 
her  because  they  knew  she  had  real  ability,  and 
also  because  it  was  known  that  she  was  a  personal 
friend  of  the  great  George  Champneys,  and  was  not 
to  be  "given  the  bird."  Angela  Lupin  left.  She 
had  been  given  the  bird,  because  she  had  not  a  friend 
at  court,  and  Mr.  Carter  wanted  to  work  in  a  fat  girl 
named  Ruby  Isaacs  for  some  reason  of  his  own.  The 
tour  was  a  series  of  disillusionments ;  nevertheless 
Fancy  Telling  managed  to  survive  it.  Moreover, 
she  did  gain  experience.  She  learnt  to  broaden  her 
methods,  to  act  with  assurance,  to  come  down  slick 
on  her  cues,  to  force  an  encore  if  she  wished  to. 
She  learnt  to  make  points  by  giving  just  the  right 
pause,  to  play  to  the  back  of  the  hall,  to  judge  its 
acoustics  and  adapt  her  voice  to  its  possibilities. 
She  learnt  to  make  up  to  the  best  advantage,  to 
judge  her  distances  accurately  in  dancing.  She 
learnt  to  drink  stout  and  to  eat  tripe.  She  gradually 
learnt  how  to  manage  "maulers"  without  eternally 
offending  them.  She  gradually  learnt  how  to  flat- 
ter, and  cajole,  and  humour  her  fellow-artists  as 


94  HEARTBEAT 

well  as  the  managers  and  people  connected  with  the 
hall.  During  the  last  week  of  the  tour  she  was  more 
popular  than  she  had  been  all  through.  Several 
members  of  the  company  were  coming  to  the  con- 
clusion that  little  Fancy  Telling  was  not  such  a 
rotter  after  all.  She  did  not  mind  this  one  way  or 
another.  She  stuffed  all  this  experience  away  into 
odd  corners  of  her  brain  for  future  use.  She  had 
her  eye  on  a  larger  canvas. 

The  third  time  she  returned  to  London,  she  found 
that  the  black  Basil  had  been  superseded  by  a  youth 
named  Walter  Podmore,  a  rather  vacuous  fair  young 
man  who  was  forever  chuckling  over  Isabel's  irre- 
sistible charms.  Her  experience  had  fortified  her 
against  the  shock  of  this  development.  So  this  was 
Isabel — darling  old  Isabel,  still  loyal,  affectionate, 
and  adorable,  still  talking  about  "May,"  still  hav- 
ing love-affairs  and  managing  them  adroitly.  These 
were  the  people,  and  this  was  the  life  from  which 
her  mother  sprang.  She  einvisaged  her  father's 
ponderous,  judicial  figure  glowering  above  her,  and 
her  resentment  quickened  at  the  thought  that  he 
should  have  sat  in  judgment  on  it. 

vn. 

DURING  the  intervals  of  this  tour  she  called  on 
George  Champneys  three  times,  and  on  no  occasion 
did  she  feel  that  she  made  much  progress  in  his 
good  graces.  He  was  always  the  same,  paternal, 
kindly,  and  mildly  encouraging.  At  the  end  of  her 
third  visit  she  became  haunted  by  a  disturbing  sus- 
picion. Of  his  sympathy  and  kindness  of  heart  she 
had  no  doubt,  but  was  it  quite  the  same  thing  flat- 


SYSTOLE  95 

tering  and  encouraging  the  daughter  of  a  famous 
and  wealthy  Chancellor  as  flattering  and  fulfilling 
promises  to  an  impecunious  and  unknown  actress? 
She  tried  to  persuade  herself  that  there  was  noth- 
ing in  it,  that  George  was  quite  sincere,  that  it  was 
only  natural  that  he  should  send  her  out  on  these 
miserable  little  tours  to  gain  experience,  but  the 
canker  of  suspicion  once  being  there  developed  and 
grew,  and  moreover  bred  other  suspicions.  Was  it 
possible,  for  instance,  that  darling  Isabel  found  her 
— well,  rather  useful  in  the  flat,  with  her  assured 
income,  and  her  ingenuity  and  anxiety  to  help  her? 
Why  was  it  that  she  had  never  had  a  line  from 
Cicely  or  Jean  since  her  father 's  death,  or  even  from 
the  aunts?  Did  Billy  Hamaton  still  love  her? 
Should  she  sacrifice  everything — throw  up  the  stage, 
seek  him  out,  marry  him,  and  nurse  him  to  the  end 
of  her  days? 

Her  impulses  swung  hither  and  thither,  but  at  the 
end  of  the  tour  they  had  solidified  to  the  extent  of 
a  determination  no  to  give  in  so  soon. 

She  became  obsessed  by  another  determination — 
to  break  free  from  George  Champneys.  She  would 
show  him  that  she  could  get  on  by  herself.  Whether 
she  expected  that  he  would  give  her  a  leading  part 
in  town  right  off  she  could  not  say.  She  only  felt 
that  he  was  not  treating  her  in  quite  the  way  he  had 
led  her  to  expect  on  that  afternoon  in  the  Strad- 
lings'  drawing-room  when  she  had  sung  "La 
Pauvre  Innocente."  Perhaps  that  day  was  charged 
with  an  indescribable  glamour — the  kind  of  day  that 
blinds  one  to  the  stern  realities.  On  that  day  she 
had  caused  the  destruction  of  her  lover,  and  even 
that  event  did  not  really  destroy  the  enchantment. 


96  HEARTBEAT 

Life  was  like  that,  a  lot  of  drab  monotony  and  dis- 
illusion, and  then  moments  almost  too  wonderful  to 
bear.  Moments  when  one  was  up  in  the  tree-tops 
and  the  earth  did  not  exist.  One  lives  on  through 
the  dreary  business  because  something  in  one's  heart 
tells  one  that  such  moments  will  occur  again.  Per- 
haps that  is  how  the  utterly  destitute,  the  down- 
trodden, the  unhealthy  go  on  living — they  have  that 
secret  buried  well  away,  a  treasure  that  cannot  be 
shared.  Having  once  beheld  "those  trailing  clouds 
of  glory,"  the  vision  sustains  us  through  eternity, 
and  neither  adversity,  disilluson,  nor  even  our  own 
vicious  habits  can  ever  utterly  abolish  or  destroy. 

She  told  Isabel  of  her  determination,  and  that 
lady  said : 

"Oh,  my  dear,  don't  you  be  a  ninny.  You'll  never 
do  better  than  George.  You  stick  to  him.  He's 
becoming  'the  big  noise,'  as  the  Yanks  say.  You 
don't  expect  him  to  put  you  on  in  town  with  only 
eight  months'  experience,  do  you?" 

Barbara  didn't  know  what  she  expected.  She  was 
hungry  for  success,  and  impatient  at  its  uncertain 
delays.  The  next  morning  she  set  off  in  her  smart- 
est coat  and  skirt,  and  a  hat  of  black  velour  with 
an  emerald  paste  buckle,  and  called  on  agents. 

She  spent  a  fortnight  calling  on  agents  and  try- 
ing to  see  managers,  and  the  result  made  her  weep. 
She  waited  for  hours  in  stuffy  rooms  with  crowds 
of  other  girls  and  men.  When  she  eventually  saw 
the  agent  the  interview  invariably  followed  identical 
lines. 

"Well,  what  experience  have  you  had?  What  is 
your  line?  All  right.  I'll  let  you  know  if  I  hear 
of  anything.  Good  morning." 


SYSTOLE  97 

She  did  not  have  quite  such  sultry  experiences 
as  Isabel  had  described,  but  they  were  sultry 
enough.  Only  two  of  the  agents  actually  tried  to 
hold  her  hands,  and  only  one  tried  to  kiss  her,  and 
then  in  a  rather  fearsome,  tentative  manner.  He 
wanted  her  to  go  into  an  inner  office  and  "see  some 
pictures,"  but  she  declined.  The  general  attitude 
was  that  the  agents  were  conferring  an  enormous 
benefit  in  seeing  her  at  all,  and  she  ought  to  appre- 
ciate the  fact  and  recognise  it  suitably.  They  looked 
her  up  and  down  like  a  farmer  judging  cattle  at  a 
cattle  show.  Into  the  sanctum  of  a  theatrical  man- 
ager she  never  managed  to  penetrate.  Mr.  So-and- 
So  only  saw  people  by  appointment.  Would  she 
kindly  write  about  her  business1?  She  wrote  to  sev- 
enteen managers.  Three  of  them  replied — in  each 
case  a  typewritten  slip  to  say  that  the  manager  re- 
gretted to  say  that  he  had  nothing  to  offer  Miss 
F.  Telling  at  the  moment. 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  she  put  her  pride  in 
her  pocket  and  went  back  to  George. 

VIII. 

IT  took  her  just  two  years  to  reach  that  little  niche 
in  George  Champneys'  autocratic  temple  which  she 
regarded  as  the  resting  place  worthy  of  a  certain 
glamorous  summer  day;  and  the  end  was  attained 
in  the  most  surprising  way. 

Two  years  of  delight  and  bitterness,  hard  work, 
vivid  experience,  disappointment,  moral  question- 
ing, spiritual  unrest.  The  lamp  flickered,  but  at  every 
flicker  the  light  became  stronger.  She  learnt  to  take 
care  of  herself,  to  adapt  every  experience  to  serve 


98  HEARTBEAT 

her  ends.  She  learnt  how  to  make  herself  popular, 
to  flirt  a  little,  to  overlook  the  delinquencies  of  her 
fellow  artists.  She  quickly  realised  that  they  were 
far  better  than  she  had  thought  at  first,  far  better 
than  they  appeared  on  the  surface.  Her  own  hot- 
house training  had  prejudiced  her  against  them,  but 
she  discovered  that  beneath  their  little  vanities  and 
childish  jealousies  there  was  a  rich  streak  of  real 
humanity  and  kindness.  They  would  behave  out- 
rageously, and  five  minutes  later  they  would  give 
their  last  shilling  to  help  a  colleague.  They  were 
just  children,  these  people,  egotistic,  impetuous, 
wilful,  but  quick  in  sympathy,  sentimental  and 
strangely  loyal.  She  began  to  love  them  and  to  fall 
into  their  ways.  Physically  the  life  agreed  with 
her.  She  found  herself  getting  plump.  All  the  boy- 
ishness, with  its  quick  and  jerky  movements,  van- 
ished. The  lines  became  rounder  and  softer,  the  ges- 
tures more  deliberate  and  significant.  She  had  a 
genius  for  dressing,  for  making  the  most  of  her  ma- 
terials, putting  a  touch  of  colour  in  the  right  place, 
catching  up  her  rich  dark  hair  in  cunning  sweeps 
under  her  hats.  Her  rather  square  pale  face  was 
dominated  by 

Those  deep  dark  eyes  where  pride  demurs. 

She  was  a  creature  ever  adjusting  her  outlook  to 
a  shifting  panorama.  She  desired  passionately  to 
be  a  part  of  this  corporate  existence  which  went  on 
round  her,  but  her  attitude  was  always  being  con- 
trolled by  some  obscure,  submerged  sense  of  pro- 
test. She  had  strange  moods  when  she  was  both 
buoyant  and  desperate.  The  joy  of  life  was  in  her 


SYSTOLE  99 

veins,  but  not  in  her  mind.  She  distrusted  herself, 
and  therefore  humanity.  She  had  read  too  little  and 
imagined  too  much.  Between  her  and  a  frank  inter- 
pretation of  living  were  little  frozen  reticences  gov- 
erned by  a  subconscious  voice  which  was  already 
pleading  for  delay.  She  felt  that  in  some  way  her 
very  soul  had  been  outraged,  and  the  outrage  was 
so  colossal  she  had  not  the  wit  to  understand  it — 
as  yet.  "You  are  an  instrument  of  readjustment," 
the  voice  would  whisper. 

Then  she  would  tremble,  and  wish  it  were  not 
so.  It  was  so  easy  to  drift  and  be  jolly. 

George  Champneys  had  an  excellent  library,  and 
during  the  intervals  of  the  various  tours  she  would 
often  call  and  borrow  a  book.  Even  then  she  didn't 
know  what  to  read,  and  how  to  read  it.  When  she 
consulted  him  he  said: 

"My  dear,  I  haven't  read  a  book  for  years.  I  never 
get  a  minute.  What  do  you  want?  When  I  was 
young — like  you — I  read  Emerson^  and  Stuart  Mill, 
and  Schopenhauer,  and  Kant,  and  all  those  people. 
I  don't  remember  a  word  that  any  of  them  said. 
Why  not  read  some  fiction?  You  get  profit  and 
pleasure  at  the  same  time.  Now,  what  about  Pick- 
wick?" 

That  was  the  worst  of  her  world.  No  one  had 
a  minute  for  reading.  Some  of  them  would  play 
cards  for  four  or  five  hours  a  day,  or  spend  the 
morning  cutting  out  a  skirt  or  the  afternoon  at  a 
race  meeting,  but  beyond  glancing  at  a  daily  paper 
no  one  had  a  minute  for  reading.  So  she  set  out  on 
her  lonely  pilgrimage  of  mental  improvement,  and 
she  struggled  through  Herbert  Spencer  and  tried 
to  read  Darwin's  Origin  of  Species.  She  was  so 


100  HEARTBEAT 

frankly  bored  that  she  decided  to  take  George's  ad- 
vice and  read  fiction — not  the  kind  of  thing  that  Isa- 
bel kept  under  her  pillow,  lurid  novels  about  high 
life — but  real,  elevating  fiction:  Meredith,  Hardy, 
perhaps  Hall  Caine.  Or  wasn't  Hall  Caine  a  great 
writer?  She  didn't  know.  She  had  heard  some  of 
the  girls  on  tour  rave  about  him.  She  must  ask 
George.  And  George  said,  "No;  Mr.  Caine  was  all 
right,  but  he  wasn't  ranked  as  a  classic.  Why  not 
read  'Diana  of  the  Crossways '?"  He  had  not  read 
it — never  had  time — but  the  high-brows  spoke  well 
of  it.  So  she  read  "Diana  of  the  Crossways,"  and 
was  bewildered.  Were  there  rich  and  clever  people 
who  really  talked  like  that  f  Her  father  had  known 
many  rich  and  clever  people,  and  they  had  visited 
at  High  Barrow,  but  she  had  never  heard  them  talk 
like  that.  They  used  to  mumble  and  talk  in  little 
jerky  sentences  about  hunting  or  eating  or  politics. 
They  were  always  fairly  intelligible,  but — Diana ! 

Hardy  she  found  more  companionable — he,  in  any 
case,  dealt  with  humble  people — and  the  tragedy  of 
Tess  moved  her  more  profoundly  than  any  expe- 
rience in  her  life.  She  wanted  to  get  in  between 
the  pages  of  this  book  and  take  a  part  in  the  un- 
fair struggle.  Tess  epitomised  to  her  the  tragedy 
of  her  mother,  the  tragedy  of  herself,  the  tragedy  of 
woman.  The  whole  scheme  of  life  was  unfair  to 
woman.  But  through  the  tears  which  blinded  her 
when  she  put  the  great  novelist's  book  down  she 
saw  a  star  of  hope.  Her  senses  quickened.  Forti- 
tude springs  from  trial  and  adversity.  She  already 
beheld  in  herself  qualities  of  heart  and  brain  which 
she  had  not  possessed — and  would  probably  never 


SYSTOLE  101 

have  possessed— in  the  shelter  of  her  father's 
house.  Of  course,  men  were  like  that.  It  was  part 
of  the  regime — to  keep  women  sheltered  and  safe,  to 
divorce  them  from  intellectual  realities,  to  hang 
them  up  on  a  peg  behind  the  door,  to  be  taken  down 
when  required.  Her  father  had  wanted  her  to  '  *  paint 
flowers"!  People  had  painted  flowers,  and  painted 
them  very  well;  there  was  nothing  wrong  about  it, 
except  that  it  typified  her  father's  attitude  towards 
women.  While  she  was  painting  flowers  she  was 
quite,  out  of  the  way;  she  couldn't  get  into  mischief, 
and  he  knew  exactly  where  she  was,  so  that  if  he 
wanted  her  he  could  send  for  her.  Flowers  were 
pretty,  and  women  were  pretty  and  soft  and  cling- 
ing, and  almost  as  perishable — admirably  adapted 
to  each  other. 

In  a  defensive  mood  she  sought  out  Billy  Hama- 
ton.  He  was  living  at  his  father's  house  at  Epsom. 
She  found  him  lying  on  a  portable  bed  by  the  win- 
dow of  a  sunny  room  overlooking  a  garden.  His 
face  appeared  to  have  lengthened,  and  the  freckles 
stood  out  pronouncedly  on  his  hollow  cheeks.  The 
eyes  were  sunken  and  weary  looking.  He  was  al- 
most unrecognisable  until  he  smiled  in  his  old  way. 
At  the  very  first  glance  she  knew  that  her  half- 
formed  resolution  to  marry  him  and  nurse  him  all 
her  days  was  an  ideal  impossible  to  fulfil.  She  pitied 
him  intensely,  and  his  face  would  haunt  her  all  her 
life,  but  she  knew  that  not  only  did  she  not  love  him, 
she  never  had  loved  him.  He  was  a  complete 
stranger  to  her,  and  a  stranger  who  produced  in 
her  little  tremors  of  a  queer  physical  revulsion. 

He  seized  her  hand  and  whispered : 

'  *  Barbara — dear  Barbara. ' ' 


102  HEARTBEAT 

"He's  going  to  be  sentimental,"  she  thought.  "I 
mustn't  give  way  to  him.  If  I  do  I  shall  be  sick." 

She  pressed  his  hands  warmly  and  said : 

" Hullo,  Billy.  I've  been  meaning  to  come  so 
often.  How  are  you,  old  boy!" 

The  "old  boy"  was  a  comforting  term  from  her 
new  world.  She  never  used  to  call  him  ' '  old  boy. ' ' 
She  rattled  on  inconsequently : 

"I  do  hope  you'll  soon  get  right,  Billy.  I  feel 
sure  you  will.  I  had  an  awful  journey  down;  train 
got  held  up  at  Surbiton  for  some  reason  or  other. 
What  are  you  reading?  Do  you  ever  hear  from 
Jean  or  Cicely?  What  a  glorious  day,  isn't  it!" 

She  hemmed  him  in  with  a  stream  of  banalities. 
He  never  got  a  chance  to  be  sentimental,  or  to  say 
all  the  things  he  had  been  saving  up  to  say.  She  told 
him  about  her  tours  and  her  work,  and  about  George 
Champneys  and  Isabel,  and  a  score  of  people  in 
whom  Billy  could  not  possibly  have  been  interested. 
They  had  hardly  had  tea  together  before  she  found 
that  she  must  rush  to  catch  her  train  back.  She 
patted  his  hands  perfunctorily  and  exclaimed: 

"Well,  good  luck,  old  boy!  I'll  come  and  see  you 
again  soon." 

On  the  way  to  the  station  she  muttered: 

"Oh,  Barbara,  you're  a  brute — a  horrid,  selfish 
little  brute!" 

Well,  doesn't  one  have  to  be  selfish?  she  argued. 
Wasn't  her  father  selfish,  and  even  Isabel,  and  prob- 
ably Shakespeare  and  Thomas  Hardy?  One  has  to 
be  selfish  to  protect  oneself.  A  person  who  doesn't 
protect  oneself  is  a  sentimental  fool. 

She  dined  that  night  with  Isabel  in  Soho,  and  they 
drank  red  wine  with  their  dinner.  She  was  flushed 


SYSTOLE  103 

and  excited.    George  had  sent  word  that  he  wished 
to  see  her  at  "The  Frivolity"  between  the  acts. 

She  was  shown  into  the  Master  Pierrot's  dress- 
ing room,  and  she  found  him  talking  to  a  gentleman 
in  his  shirt  sleeves,  with  a  bowler  hat  tilted  at  a 
dangerous  angle  over  his  left  ear.  They  were 
drinking  whisky-and-soda.  He  nodded  to  her  cas- 
ually and  said: 

"Hullo,  Fancy.  Wait  two  minutes.  I  want  to 
see  you." 

He  went  on  talking  to  the  man  in  the  bowler  hat 
about  floats  for  some  minutes,  and  then  dismissed 
him.  When  he  had  gone,  George  said  in  his  thick 
comfortable  voice : 

"Now,  look  here,  my  dear,  it's  like  this.  Miss 
Roland,  who  has  been  understudying  Rosie,  is  ill. 
She  has  got  to  go  to  a  hospital  and  have  an  opera- 
tion. How  would  you  like  to  take  her  placet" 

Made!  She  was  made!  In  that  wild  moment 
Barbara^  saw  her  whole  career  in  a  tumultuous 
flash.  Miss  Roland  would  go  to  the  hospital  (and 
probably  die).  Next  week  Rosie  Ventnor,  the  lead- 
ing comedienne  in  the  London  Frivolity  company, 
would  also  be  taken  ill.  (She  might  also  die.)  She, 
Barbara,  would  step  into  her  place.  She  would 
make  an  instantaneous  hit.  There  would  be  head- 
lines in  the  newspaper:  "Brilliant  Debut  of  Young 
Actress."  There  would  be  her  portrait  in  all  the 
illustrated  papers.  There  would,  be  cheers,  and 
bouquets,  fame  and  a  house  with  servants  in  the 
park.  London  would  kneel  at  her  feet. 

She  blushed,  smiled  at  George  demurely,  and  in 
a  timid  voice  said : 


104  HEARTBEAT 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Champneys,  I  should  like  it 
very  much." 

"All  right  then;  there's  a  call  at  eleven  in  the 
morning.  You'll  have  to  work  hard,  because  she 
may  have  to  go  off  at  any  time.  Go  round  to  the 
front  and  find  Mr.  Stiles'  office.  He'll  give  you  the 
script  and  the  songs.  Have  a  drink?  No,  of  course 
not;  you're  too  young.  So  long,  old  girl,  I've  got  to 
get  ready." 

Oh,  George,  George,  what  a  splendid  person  you 
are !  As  she  walked  dazedly  through  the  streets  on 
the  way  back  to  the  flat,  he  seemed  to  hover  above 
her  like  some  vast  benignant  destiny.  In  a  shifting 
and  unstable  world  he,  and  he  alone,  appeared  a 
creature  charged  with  kindliness  and  real  affection. 
The  mere  thought  of  him  made  her  quiver  with 
gratitude.  From  that  day  when  he  had  first  heard 
her  sing  "La  Pauvre  Innocente"  a  new  joy  and 
sense  of  freedom  had  enveloped  her.  He  was  so 
vast,  competent,  reliable  and  successful.  She  hated 
herself  for  having  once  doubted  him.  She  was  a 
wretch  to  have  thought  of  deserting  him.  Didn't 
he  say  that  he  would  push  her  on  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible? Didn't  he  promise  solemnly?  And  every- 
one affirmed  that  George  was  a  man  of  his  word. 
How  clear  it  all  was  now,  this  careful  planning  of 
her  three  years'  experience?  She  adored  him:  he 
was  like  a  father,  a  brother,  a  protector.  She  knew 
that  during  all  that  time  if  she  had  been  in  any 
kind  of  trouble  he  would  have  helped  her.  No,  it 
wasn't  necessary  to  be  selfish  to  protect  oneself; 
it  was  necessary  to  be  unselfish.  Isabel  might  be 
selfish — and  even  Shakespeare  or  Hardy — but  in  this 
glowing,  thrilling  world,  one  man  stood  out  as  a 


SYSTOLE  105 

supreme  example  of  the  opposite — George  Champ- 
neys. 

IX. 

THE  position  of  an  understudy  is  somewhat  similar 
to  that  of  a  poor  man  at  a  rich  uncle's  bedside. 
His  solicitude  for  the  other's  welfare  is  apt  to  be 
double-faced. 

Barbara's  interest  in  Rosie  Ventnor's  health  was 
an  enveloping  obsession.  She  hung  about  the  stage 
door  all  on  edge  for  her  arrival.  When  Rosie  did 
arrive  she  glanced  eagerly  at  her  face  to  detect  any 
signs  of  indisposition.  She  watched  her  from  the 
wings;  she  watched  her  at  the  back.  She  listened 
to  find  evidence  of  a  cold  or  crack  in  the  voice.  She 
tried  so  hard  not  to  want  Rosie  to  catch  cold  or  fall 
down  and  sprain  her  ankle,  but  it  was  impossible. 
She  even  endured  nightmareish  temptations  to  do 
her  some  hurt  surreptitiously,  trip  her  up,  or  put 
something  into  the  water  in  her  dressing  room 
which  would  make  her  just  a  little  ill  for  a  fnw 
days.  Her  malicious  impulses  were  the  more  to  be 
condemned  in  that  Rosie  was  a  very  nice  girl,  and 
was  perfectly  charming  to  her.  If  only  she  weren't 
so  disgustingly  healthy!  The  nights  passed,  and 
the  weeks,  and  even  the  months,  and  still  Rosie 
Ventnor  came  bouncing  through  the  stage  door, 
smiling  and  showing  her  splendid  teeth,  whch  had 
already  served  a  sound  commercial  purpose  in  ad- 
vertising a  well-known  dentifrice.  Even  this  adver- 
tisement embittered  Barbara.  With  a  little  luck, 
she  might  have  appeared  on  the  back  page  of  the 
Star  above  the  statement:  "Miss  Fancy  Telling, 


106  HEARTBEAT 

the  famous  actress,  says,  'I  always  use  Blogg's 
Dentifrice.  I  find  it  admirable  in  every  way.  It 
keeps  the  teeth  splendidly  white,  and  is  refreshing 
and  pleasant  to  the  palate'."  Apart  from  her  re- 
sentment at  Rosie's  splendid  health  and  teeth,  she 
was  very  happy. 

In  the  first  place  she  felt  that  she  was  on  the 
eve  of  recognition.  She  had  an  engagement  in 
town,  and  at  one  of  its  most  successful  productions. 
George  would  not  run  the  risk  of  allowing  her  the 
possibility  of  playing  a  leading  part  unless  he 
thought  highly  of  her.  She  thought  she  had  done 
well  at  the  rehearsals,  and  Mr.  Lamb,  who  was 
himself  an  understudy  of  the  great  producer, 
Julius  Banstead,  had  openly  praised  her  perform- 
ance. In  the  second  place,  the  company  were  far 
more  companionable  than  any  of  the  companies  she 
had  been  with  on  tour.  George's  genial  spirit 
seemed  to  permeate  them  all.  There  were  all  kinds 
of  little  social  gatherings  in  various  dressing 
rooms,  all  kinds  of  jokes,  discussions  and  stories. 
Even  the  stage  hands  were  pleasant,  uncommon 
people,  with  queer  characteristics  and  friendly 
manners.  There  was  Sydney  Ebbway,  a  rather 
ugly,  lantern-faced  man,  very  thin;  he  acted  as  a 
foil  to  George  on  the  stage.  He  had  a  deep,  lugu- 
brious voice,  and  a  massive  sense  of  humour.  He 
would  sometimes  take  her  on  one  side,  and  tell  her 
about  his  three  children,  or  his  garden  at  Chiswick. 
From  that  he  would  get  on  to  social  questions,  and 
then  religion  and  God.  He  talked  above  her  head, 
and  she  was  never  quite  certain  how  serious  he  was, 
but  the  steady  grey  twinkly  eyes  were  irresistible, 
and  after  a  time  she  had  to  shake  her  head  and 


SYSTOLE  107 

laugh.     Then  he  would  seize  her  by  the  shoulder 
and  say: 

"Why  do  I  waste  my  eloquence  on  a  baby  like 
you?" 

And  she  would  answer : 

"I'm  awfully  sorry,  Mr.  Ebbway." 

On  one  of  these  occasion  he  looked  at  her  eyes 
thoughtfully  for  a  long  time;  then  he  said: 

* '  I  know  why  it  is — you  've  got  it  all. ' ' 

He  turned  away  and  left  her  to  ponder  his  mean- 
ing. 

For  some  reason  or  other  the  phrase  excited  her 
tremendously,  and  in  an  obscure  way  she  felt  that 
it  was  true.  She  had  got  it  all!  What? — she  didn't 
know,  but  she  knew  she  had  got  something.  It  must 
be  something  enormously  important,  because  the 
sentence  implied  that  it  was  almost  unique  to  "have 
it  all."  Some  of  these  other  girls.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes, 
it  was  a  glorious  life.  It  made  Mr.  Ebbway  melan- 
choly to  reflect  that  she  had  it  all.  He  had  sighed 
dismally.  It  was  evident  that  she  had  something 
which  he  had  not,  and  she  was  only  an  understudy. 

Days  and  nights  and  weeks  passed  in  varying 
moods  of  delight  and  misgiving.  If  only  Rosie 
would  get  ill!  The  production  was  still  playing  to 
packed  houses,  but  it  couldn't  go  on  forever.  She 
was  kept  very  busy,  because  George  was  always  in- 
troducing new  skits,  and  gags,  and  songs,  and  she 
had  to  keep  up  to  date  with  everything. 

One  night  she  arrived  home  very  late  and  found 
Isabel  lying  on  the  Chesterfield,  sobbing.  She 
rushed  and  threw  her  arms  around  her. 

"What  is  it,  darling?     What's  the  matter?" 
Isabel  cried  and  cried,  and  could  not  get  her 
voice.    At  last   she  said : 


108  HEARTBEAT 

"Oh,  God!— the  fool,  the  fool!" 

"What  is  it,  darling?" 

Isabel  seemed  angry  and  a  little  unresponsive. 

"Oh,  you  can't  help  me,  Kiddy.  I'm  all  right. 
I  didn't  mean  you  to — see  me." 

"There  must  be  something.  Oh,  tell  me,  what  is 
it,  darling  Isabel?  I  must  help  you." 

"No,  no — go  away.    I  shall  be  all  right. 

She  could  get  nothing  further  out  of  her  friend, 
and  retired  to  bed  in  a  state  of  dubious  anxiety. 

Two  days  later  Isabel  came  to  her.  There  were 
dark  rings  round  her  eyes,  and  her  lips  were  pale. 
Without  looking  at  Barbara  she  said: 

' '  I  want  you  to  do  me  a  favour,  darling. ' ' 

"Of  course,  Isabel." 

"I  want  you  to  go  away  and  stay  somewhere  else 
for  a  week. ' ' 

Barbara  was  aghast.  Something  awful  and  tragic 
was  afoot,  and  an  inner  voice  told  her  that  she  had 
better  not  inquire.  She  was  not  to  be  in  this  at 
all.  She  replied  in  a  whisper : 

"All  right,  darling." 

She  was  frankly  scared.  Somehow  the  chilling 
fears  which  crept  around  her  heart  were  less  fears 
for  Isabel  than  the  uncomfortable  sense  that  she 
was  dealing  with  the  unknown.  It  was  also  obvious 
that  Isabel  was  frightened  and  desperate.  It  was 
also  obvious  that  she  was  terribly  anxious  not  to  im- 
part her  trouble  to  Barbara,  but  to  get  rid  of  her  as 
quickly  as  possible.  She  immediately  went  over  to  a 
private  hotel  at  Paddington,  where  she  knew  that  one 
of  the  girls  from  the  Frivolity  stayed,  and  booked 
a  room.  Then  she  went  back  and  packed  her  trunk. 

Isabel  hovered  like  a  spectre  in  the  background. 


SYSTOLE  109 

"Take  everything  you  may  want,  Kiddy.  I  want 
you  to  promise  me  you  won't  come  back,  or  call,  for 
a  week. ' ' 

"All  right,  Isabel — I  promise." 
More  mysteries !   She  was  frightened  of  her  own 
emotion  when  she  kissed  her  friend  good-bye.    She 
pecked  her  cheek  perfunctorily,  and  steadied  her 
voice  to  say: 

"So  long,  darling." 
In  the  cab  her  heart  beat  violently. 
"I  shall  never  see  her  again,"  was  the  purport 
of  its  beat. 

Everything  was  slipping  away  from  her.  Her 
friends?  If  Isabel  died — and  of  course  she  would 
— who  else  was  there  to  cling  to?  Only  her  career, 
her  career  and  the  dole  flung  to  her  by  her  father. 
George?  Yes,  George  was  a  dear  good  friend,  but 
she  did  not  regard  him  in  that  way.  She  felt  no 
desire  to  cling  to  George.  And  that  is  the  trouble. 
It  isn't  sufficient  to  have  friends,  and  fame,  and 
money;  when  we  get  down  to  the  raw  stuff  of  our 
being,  we  demand  someone  to  cling  to — both  phys- 
ically and  spiritually.  Upon  this  impulse  rests  the 
survival  of  God  and  humanity. 

That  night  she  hovered  in  the  wings  like  a  little 

scared  ghost.    For  the  first  time  she  dreaded  that 

Rosie  might  fall  ill.    If  she  had  done  so,  Barbara 

felt  certain  that  she  could  not  have  gone  on  to  take 

her  place.    Her  nerves  were  all  unstrung.    In  one 

of  the  waits  George  came  across  her.    He  regarded 

her  critically  under  the  light  of  the  floats,  and  said : 

'  *  What 's  the  matter,  Fancy  ?    You  look  ill.  > ' 

Tears  sprang  to  her  eyes.    If  anyone  started  be- 


110  HEARTBEAT 

ing  sympathetic  she  would  break  down.  She  shook 
her  head  and  looked  away. 

''It's  nothing,  Mr.  Champneys.  I'm  a  little  wor- 
ried about  something." 

For  a  moment  he  appeared  to  be  about  to  turn 
away.  Then  he  stopped  and  looked  at  her  again,  and 
a  most  queer  expression  came  over  his  face.  It  was 
as  though,  after  looking  at  her  for  three  years,  he 
had  suddenly  seen  her  for  the  first  time;  or  as 
though  some  entirely  novel  aspect  regarding  her 
had  presented  itself  abruptly.  He  spoke  kindly. 

' l  Come  round  to  my  room  after  the  show.  I  want 
to  speak  to  you." 

She  wished  he  had  not  asked  her.  She  was  tired, 
jaded,  and  in  no  mood  for  any  emotional  experience. 
She  went  to  one  of  the  dressing  rooms  and  tried  to 
read  a  book  till  the  final  curtain,  but  the  words 
danced  before  her  eyes  meaninglessly.  Would  the 
performance,  with  its  interminable  encores,  never 
end  I  "When  at  last  it  really  did  come  to  a  stop,  she 
followed  the  chief  to  his  door.  She  waited  till  he 
had  gone  in,  and  then  tapped  timidly.  The  dresser 
opened  it,  and  admitted  her. 

Georgei  was  already  smearing  cocoa-butter  on 
his  face.  He  said : 

"Come  in,  Fancy.  Sit  down.  I  won't  be  a 
minute." 

He  cleaned  up  his  face  and  dismissed  the  dresser. 
Then  he  turned  to  her. 

"Now,  you've  got  to  tell  me  what's  the  matter, 
Fancy." 

She  had  determined  not  to  give  way.  She  tried 
to  speak  brightly  and  cheerfully. 

"It's  really  nothing,  Mr.  Champneys;  nothing 
at  all.  I'm  only  a  little  out  of  sorts." 


SYSTOLE  111 

"You  said  you  were  worried  about  something." 

"Yes.  No,  it's  nothing,  nothing  of  any  impor- 
tance— really." 

He  searched  her  face  and  did  not  speak  for  some 
moments,  and  when  he  did  his  voice  had  a  strange, 
appealing  ring : 

"You  haven't  been  getting  into  trouble?" 

"Getting  into  trouble?" 

Oh,  la  pduvre  innocent e!  It  was  difficult  to  know 
how  to  talk  to  the  child.  He  mixed  himself  a  whisky 
and  soda — a  stiff  one.  Then  he  sat  back  in  a  pa- 
ternally judicial  attitude. 

"You  don't — you're  not  one  of  those  people 
who  go  about  much  with  boys,  are  you?" 

She  was  offended,  offended  and  yet  at  the  same 
time  fiercely  grateful.  He  was  hurting  her  in  the 
way  she  desired  to  be  hurt.  She  would  rather  quar- 
rel than  anything.  She  replied  brusquely: 

"No,  I'm  not" 

"Did  you  know  why  Miss  Roland  had  to  leave 
the  theatre?" 

"No — not  exactly,  except  that  she  was  ill." 

She  cowered  against  the  wall,  a  ruffled  kitten. 
Yes,  yes — it  was  perfectly  true.  She  was  an  ex- 
tremely pretty  girl  and — completely  innocent.  He 
looked  away,  slightly  confused,  and  said  rapidly: 

"I'm  sorry,  Fancy.  I  didn't  want  to  offend  you, 
my  dear.  I  only  wanted  to  say  that  you  must  al- 
ways tell  me.  If  ever  you  are  in  trouble  of  any 
sort,  come  and  tell  me  at  once." 

"Thank  you  very  much,  Mr.  Champneys." 

"That 's  all.   Good-night,  Fancy." 

•* '  Good-night,  Mr.  Champneys. ' ' 


112  HEARTBEAT 


IN  the  days  that  followed  she  found  it  impossible 
to  evade  the  realisation  of  the  metamorphosis  tak- 
ing place  in  George  Champneys,  or  to  gauge  rightly 
the  effect  reacting  upon  herself.  It  was  as  though 
through  the  glance  of  an  eye  she  had  jumped  sev- 
eral years'  experience.  The  need  for  considering 
and  understanding  these  readjustments  was  urgent. 
Even  the  affair  of  Isabel  became  of  secondary  im- 
portance. 

It  was  not  that  he  spoke  much  to  her,  or  acted 
towards  her  with  any  manifest  difference.  It  was 
just  the  way  his  eye  dwelt  upon  her  with  a  far- 
away, hang-dog  appeal,  and  when  he  did  speak  to 
her  she  noticed  that  the  timbre  of  his  voice  warmed 
perceptibly.  Her  intuitions  told  her  that  he  desired 
her  intensely. 

The  immediate  outcome  of  this  realization  was  a 
consuming  sense  of  pride.  She  examined  herself 
in  the  mirror  at  various  angles.  She  subjected  her 
natural  charms  to  a  searching  analysis,  and  came 
out  of  the  ordeal  with  flying  colours.  She  was,  in- 
deed, a  pretty  woman,  a  woman  of  the  world,  a 
woman  sought  after,  a  person  of  considerable  im- 
portance, and  only  the  previous  week  the  mirror 
had  told  her  nothing  about  all  this.  She  was  all 
aglow  and  aquiver  with  a  novel  sense  of  assurance 
and  delight.  She  read  the  yearning  and  the  pathos 
in  his  eyes,  and  her  heart  went  out  to  him.  How 
tragic  it  seemed  that  a  man  like  he,  a  darling  of 
the  people,  a  man  whom  everyone  regarded  as  the 
personification  of  success  and  fun,  should  carry 
this  secret  sorrow  in  his  heart.  She  visualised  the 


SYSTOLE  113 

wild  nights  of  triumph,  the  shouts  and  cheers: 
"George!  George!  Bravo,  George!"  and  then — the 
utter  loneliness  and  melancholy  of  his  home.  Poor 
George!  Why  hadn't  he  married  years  ago?  He 
must  be — forty-six?  forty-seven?  and  she  was 
twenty-two.  Of  course,  the  whole  idea  was  ridicu- 
lous. She  could  never  marry  him,  but  oh!  there  was 
something  very  wonderful  in  being  loved.  There 
was  something  very  wonderful  in  realising  the 
power  of  love.  Love.  Power!  The  connection 
could  not  be  idly  disregarded.  The  Billy  Hamaton 
affair  was  an  episode,  an  incident.  If  George  loved 
her  she  would  have  to  face  the  potentialities  of  dy- 
namic action.  George  was  not  a  person  to  be  dis- 
missed or  passed  over  lightly.  The  day  would  come 
rapidly  when  she  would  have  to  show  her  hand. 

Of  course,  he  was  not  the  knight  of  her  dreams, 
but  does  a  girl  ever  meet  the  knight  of  her  dreams? 
Besides — is  she  always  certain  to  recognise  him? 
Does  anything  ever  happen  as  we  expect  it?  He 
was  so  good,  so  kind,  the  dearest  friend  she  had  in 
the  world.  When  the  test  came  she  would  have  not 
only  to  have  the  measure  of  her  own  emotions  and 
desires,  but  to  face  the  cleavage  of  two  very  definite 
material  positions.  On  the  one  hand — dismissal, 
drifting  away  into  obscurity,  possibly  touring  with 
third-rate  companies,  being  out  of  work  for  months 
on  end,  calling  on  those  objectionable  agents,  being 
insulted  and  "mauled  about."  On  the  other  hand, 
the  certainty  of  a  "lead"  in  one  of  the  most  popu- 
lar theatres  in  London,  fame,  considerable  wealth — 
Power.  Oh,  yes,  there  was  certainly  something  very 
wonderful  in  the  power  of  love ! 

One  morning,  whilst  dwelling  on  these  disturb- 


114  HEARTBEAT 

ing  reflections,  there  came  a  telegram  from  Isabel: 

"Come  and  see  me.    Am  all  right.    Isabel" 

She  was  at  the  flat  within  half  an  hour.  She  found 
Isabel  in  bed.  in  charge  of  a  queer  middle-aged 
woman,  who  said: 

"You  must  keep  quiet  and  not  mug  her  about. 
Don't  shake  the  bed.  She's  all  right,  but  she's  got 
to  stay  there  weeks  yet." 

Isabel  looked  very  ill,  and  she  wept  a  little  when 
Barbara  kissed  her.  Of  the  nature  of  her  illness 
she  would  say  nothing  except : 

"Thank  God  that's  over,  kiddy." 

Barbara  felt  embarrassed.  Such  a  lot  had  hap- 
pened that  week,  and  she  and  Isabel  each  had  se- 
crets they  could  not  share.  Never  mind.  Dear  old 
Isabel!  She  would  soon  be  her  dear,  sloppy,  kind- 
hearted  self  again. 

"Can  I  come  back?"  Barbara  asked. 

"Yes.  Do  come  back,  dear.  I'm  lonely.  That 
hateful  old  woman.  .  .  .  You  must  be  very  quiet, 
though,  and  not  make  me  cry." 

Barbara  promised,  and  that  same  afternoon 
found  her  re-established  in  the  flat.  Before  she  left 
for  the  theatre  she  went  in  to  see  Isabel  again.  She 
seemed  feverish  and  worried.  Barbara  rememberd 
her  promise  not  to  make  her  cry,  so  she  said  in  a 
matter-of-fact  voice : 

"Is  there  anything  else  I  can  do,  darling?" 

She  did  not  know  why  that  innocent  question 
should  make  Isabel  cry  again,  but  it  did.  At  last, 
with  their  cheeks  pressed  together,  Isabel  whis- 
pered : 

"Do  you  still  love  me,  Fancy?" 

"Of  course  I  do,  darling!" 


SYSTOLE  115 

"There's  no  one  else,  is  there?  You  look  differ- 
ent, kiddy — brighter  and  prettier." 

Barbara  did  not  know  how  to  reply,  and  Isabel 
suddenly  added : 

"It's  like  this,  dear:  I've  no  money,  and  that  aw- 
ful old  woman  wants  ten  quid  by  to-morrow  morn- 
ing." 

"I'll  pay  it,"  said  Barbara  eagerly.  "And  any 
more  that  you  want." 

She  left  Isabel  weeping  with  relief. 

XI. 

AT  the  theatre  that  night  her  sense  of  importance 
increased.  She  glanced  at  the  other  artistes  and 
the  stage  hands  to  see  if  she  could  detect  any  signs 
of  knowledge  of  the  situation  on  their  part.  She 
peeped  through  the  curtain  and  surveyed  the 
packed  house.  What  a  lot  of  money  it  must  hold! 
Rows  and  rows  of  people  who  had  paid  ten-and-six- 
pence  for  a  seat.  She  had  never  thought  about  it 
that  way  before.  Her  mind  was  subtly  intrigued 
by  the  image  of  proprietorship.  And  all  these  other 
people — the  "lights,"  the  scene  shifters,  the  assist- 
ant stage  manager — how  different  their  attitude 
would  be  if  they  knew,  or  even  suspected.  She 
mustn't  let  them  know  or  suspect,  because,  of 
course,  the  whole  idea  was  ridiculous.  One  of  the 
girls  was  short  with  her  because  she  got  in  her  way 
at  an  exit. 

"I  could  put  you  in  your  place,  my  dear,"  she 
thought. 

George  was  there  early,  watching  out  for  her. 
She  could  tell  that  by  the  expression  of  his  face, 


116  HEARTBEAT 

a  little  preoccupied,  and  then  lighting  up  with 
pleasure,  almost  with  relief,  at  sight  of  her.  He 
smiled  and  regarded  her  wistfully  across  a  group 
of  people,  but  there  was  no  opportunity  to  speak. 
Between  the  acts  she  avoided  him  intentionally,  and 
before  the  show  was  over  she  left.  This  silent  com- 
munion went  on  for  several  weeks,  and  the  commit- 
ment was  no  less  definite  for  not  being  outwardly 
expressed.  She  observed  the  struggle  going  on  in 
him,  the  lines  of.  desire  deepen  about  his  eyes  and 
mouth.  Occasionally  he  would  make  excuses  for 
touching  her  when  they  were  waiting  in  the  wings. 
On  these  occasions  she  would  feel  the  deliberate 
message  of  the  contact.  He  would  look  at  her  hun- 
grily, and  whisper,  so  that  the  others  could  not 
hear: 

"Barbara,  Barbara." 

She  knew  that  the  position  could  not  remain  long 
so,  and  when  one  night  he  said:  "Barbara  I  want 
you  to  come  out  to  my  place  and  lunch  with  me  to- 
morrow," she  felt  relieved,  although  still  utterly 
unprepared  for  action. 

The  lunch  was  a  curiously  constrained  entertain- 
ment. They  were  waited  on  by  an  elderly  house- 
keeper who  did  most  of  the  talking.  The  great 
comedian  for  once  had  lost  his  touch.  He  was  som- 
bre and  ill  at  ease.  She  felt  that  the  positions  had 
been  reversed.  She  was  no  longer  a  child.  He  was 
the  child,  and  she  a  grown  woman.  She  mothered 
him  into  a  state  of  subjection,  and  when  the  old 
woman  had  retired  it  was  she  who  suggested  that 
they  should  adjourn  to  the  studio.  Once  there,  she 
managed  to  get  him  ensconced  in  the  big  easy  chair 
by  the  fireplace,  while  she  sat  some  way  off,  and 


SYSTOLE  117 

chatted  indifferently  about  the  affairs  of  the  thea- 
tre. She  tried  manfully  to  plug  up  the  gaps  and 
reticences  with  gossip  and  mirth,  till  she  became 
painfully  aware  that  her  measures  were  but  a  tem- 
porary shift.  Her  defensive  chatter  was  like  at- 
tacking an  elephant  with  a  pea-shooter.  He  was 
occupied  avidly  with  his  eyes,  and  with  his  ears  not 
at  all. 

At  last  he  rose,  and  stood  with  his  legs  wide 
apart  and  his  back  to  the  fire.  Steadying  his  voice 
he  said  with  quiet  emphasis : 

"Do  you  know  that  Rosie  Ventnor's  contract  ex- 
pires next  month?" 

What  was  the  significance  of  that?  What  was 
he  implying?  Surely  not  that  she.  .  .  .  She 
snapped  out  breezily: 

''Really?  Well,  you'll  renew  it,  of  course.  She 
surely  won't  be  leaving?" 

He  held  her  in  an  inquisitorial  glance  as  he  mur- 
mured : 

"It  all  depends." 

She  knew  then  that  the  issue  was  joined.  George 
was  coming  out  into  the  open.  She  must  gather 
together  her  scattered,  unprepared  forces.  She  re- 
peated mechanically: 

"It  all  depends?" 

"Yes.    On  you." 

Having  delivered  his  message,  he  advanced 
slowly  upon  her,  before  the  flavour  of  this  glitter- 
ing implication  had  had  time  to  dissipate.  She  was 
indeed  held  by  it,  his  own  propinquity  for  the  mo- 
ment disregarded.  She  ...  the  star  of  the  Frivol- 
ities !  As  in  a  dream  she  was  aware  of  being  picked 
out  of  her  chair  and  crushed  in  his  arms.  From  a 


118  HEARTBEAT 

long  way  off  she  seemed  to  hear  the  low,  vibrant 
notes  of  his  voice. 

"Oh,  Barbara,  Barbara.  You  know  I  love  you, 
don't  you?  Give  me  your  lips.  I  want  you.  Bar- 
bara, Barbara." 

The  effort  appeared  to  wind  him.  His  breath 
came  in  short  stabs. 

She  hung  rigid  in  his  arms,  her  eyes  closed.  He 
kissed  her  lips,  but  she  did  not  respond.  Some- 
where in  the  house  someone  was  practicing  a  scale. 
The  sound  took  hold  of  her.  All  her  physical,  men- 
tal and  moral  being  was  in  a  state  of  suspense.  She 
could  neither  think  nor  focus.  He  was  hurting  her 
as  he  puffily  sought  to  make  her  respond  to  his 
embraces. 

She  cried  out  limply : 

"Oh — oh,  Mr.  Champneys — no,  please!" 

"Barbara,  I  love  you.    Can't  you? — can't  you?" 

At  last  he  withdrew  his  arms  and  lips,  stung  to 
reaction  by  her  lack  of  reciprocity.  He  had  found 
out  the  answer  to  the  query  which  had  been  tortur- 
ing him  for  weeks.  She  did  not  respond.  She  did 
not  love  him.  He  held  no  physical  attraction  for 
her.  Fool!  what  could  he  expect?  The  position  was 
not  without  hope,  though.  He  had  failed  to  carry 
the  ramparts  by  storm,  but  other  methods  could  be 
tried.  He  meandered  helplessly  to  the  fireplace, 
and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands.  He  looked  a  pa- 
thetic figure  standing  there,  a  large,  unhappy  child. 
She  pitied  him,  and  desired  intensely  to  envelop 
him  with  maternal  tenderness. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Mr.  Champneys.  Oh,  you  have 
been  so  kind  to  me.  You  are  one  of  the  few  dear 


SYSTOLE  119 

friends  I  have.    My  dear,  I'm  so  sorry.    It's  only 
that  somehow  I  .  .  ." 

She  could  not  express  herself.  He  shrngged  his 
shoulders  and  spoke  in  a  low,  husky  tone : 

''I  know,  I  know,  old  girl.  I  know  I  had  no  right 
to  ask  you.  I  wanted  to  ask  you  to  marry  me,  but 
I  know  it's  all — utterly  absurd.  I'm  twenty-three 
years  older  than  you,  Barbara.  I'm  battered,  shop- 
worn. I've  played  ducks  and  drakes  with  all  the 
ten  commandments.  You're  only  a  kid." 

"I  wouldn't  care  about  all  that  side  of  it,"  she 
flashed  out,  trying  to  relieve  him. 

He  regarded  her  thoughtfully. 

"No,  you  wouldn't  care  about  that  side  of  it,  only 
that  you  feel  it.  Your  intuitions,  eh?  I  revolt 
you " 

"No,  no,  no." 

Suddenly  he  turned  away,  and  cried  out  desper- 
ately : 

"There's  one  thing  I  won't  have — your  pity.  If 
you  can't  love  me  we  must  cut  it  out.  But  I  can't 
stand  you  pitying  me,  Barbara.  See!  You  can't 
think  how  that  would  torture  me.  When  a  man  asks 
for  love  and  only  gets  pity,  my  God!  it's  apt  to 
drive  him  mad.  I  should  think  of  you  almost  laugh- 
ing at  me " 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I'm  too  fond  of  you  for  that." 

"No,  no,  but  it  might  come.  There  would  always 
be  the  ugly  dread.  I  believe  I  could  make  you  love 
me,  Barbara.  To  a  girl  like  you — you  don't  under- 
stand— love  would  come  afterwards.  It's  better 
for  you  to  be  loved  than  to  love.  God!  I  would  be 
good  and  loyal  to  you.  I  would  surround  you  with 
everything  you  wish.  I  would  be  tender.  I  would 


120  HEARTBEAT 

never  do  anything  you  did  not  approve  of.  I  would 
make  you  famous,  if  you  desire  it — rich." 

Yes,  the  material  issues  were  clear  enough.  She 
had  no  illusions  on  that  score.  Their  very  defin- 
iteness  augmented  her  sense  of  an  outrage  on  her 
liberty — her  freedom  to  decide,  her  freedom  to  de- 
velop on  her  own  lines.  She  spoke  in  a  voice  under 
complete  control  for  the  first  time  during  the  in- 
terview. 

"What  did  you  mean,  George,  when  you  said  it 
all  depends!" 

He  looked  puzzled. 

"What  did  I  mean!  What  do  you  mean,  Bar- 
bara?" 

"I  was  thinking  of— the  alternative." 

He  snatched  at  her  meaning,  and  shook  his  large 
head  almost  angrily. 

"Oh,  I  wasn't  meaning  to  blackmail  you,  Bar- 
bara. I  don't  want  to  tempt  you  like  that.  It's 
only  that — well,  if  you  won't  have  me,  I — simply 
couldn't  have  you  in  the  theatre.  I  couldn't  stand 
it,  you  seel  I  wouldn't  let  you  down.  I  would  get 
you  a  good  tour,  or  a  part  somewhere  else.  I'd  pay 
you.  I'd  do  anything  you  like,  only  I  couldn't  bear 
having  you  so  near  me,  torturing  me  to  distraction. 
If  you'd  have  me,  well,  it's  natural  for  a  man  to  do 
everything  for  his  wife's  career,  if  she  wants  to 
have  a  career.  And  it  isn't  as  though  I  should  be 
foisting  inferior  goods  on  the  public  for  personal 
reasons.  I  should  be  proud  of  you.  You'd  soon 
be  as  clever  and  popular  as  Rosie  Ventnor." 

George  made  this  statement  quite  simply  and  sin- 
cerely, little  suspecting  what  a  big  influence  it 
would  have  upon  his  case.  He  saw  her  face  flush 


SYSTOLE  121 

with  eagerness,  her  troubled  brow  clear  with  relief. 
Not  so  hopeless,  after  all.  She's  a  little  unstrung. 
Leave  her  alone.  Give  her  time  to  reflect. 

He  smiled  at  her  in  his  old  friendly  way  and  held 
out  his  hand. 

"I'm  worrying  you,  old  girl.  I  didn't  mean  to 
do  that.  Now,  you  trot  along  home  and  think  about 
it.  Only  don't  keep  me  in  this  state  of  torment 
long." 

At  the  door  she  kissed  him  rather  primly  on  the 
cheek,  and  said: 

"You're  a  dear  nice  person." 

xn. 

\ 

SHE  did  not  tell  Isabel  about  her  affair  till  two  days 
later.  She  was  impatient  with  her  friend's  illness. 
She  would  have  liked  to  have  dined  out  with  her  at 
some  gay  restaurant,  and  over  a  bottle  of  red  wine 
lain  bare  her  soul.  Isabel  was  still  flaccid  and  en- 
tirely concentrated  on  her  own  troubles.  She  had 
irretrievably  lost  her  place  at  Daly's  and  she  would 
probably  be  unable  to  work  for  months.  She  had 
no  money,  and  appeared  to  have  contracted  various 
inexplicable  debts.  Poor  old  Isabel!  Barbara  did 
not  mind  that.  Her  money  was  Isabel's  money,  so 
far  as  it  went.  But  it  was  beginning  to  dawn  upon 
her  that  in  a  short  while  it  would  hardly  go  far 
enough.  Bills  came  in  for  all  kinds  of  luxuries  the 
girls  had  indulged  in  before  Isabel's  illness.  Isabel 
had  been  hopelessly  vague  in  money  matters,  and 
Barbara  had  been  careless.  Now  she  realized  that 
all  her  available  capital  was  gone,  and  that  they 
were  depending  entirely  on  her  own  small  salary 


122  HEARTBEAT 

and  the  cheque  for  £33  10s.  which  the  lawyers  sent 
her  every  month.  This  was  a  sheet  anchor,  and 
she  felt  that  whilst  there  was  that  to  rely  on  she 
could  go  on  borrowing  and  running  up  bills  indefi- 
nitely. These  were  trivial  considerations,  if  only 
Isabel  would  be  her  old  self.  She  was  bursting  to 
discuss  George's  proposal  with  someone,  and  so  on 
the  second  day  she  went  out  and  bought  a  bottle  of 
port.  After  lunch  she  poured  out  two  glasses,  one 
for  Isabel  and  one  for  herself,  then,  to  her  annoy- 
ance, found  that  Isabel  had  been  forbidden  to  drink 
anything  alcoholic  for  some  weeks.  So  she  drank 
her  own  glass,  and,  still  lacking  the  encouragement 
of  her  friend's  response,  she  began  on  the  other. 
Then  she  talked. 

"You  know  I  lunched  with  George  Champneys 
tjie  day  before  yesterday,  darling?  Well,  I  haven't 
told  you — he  proposed  to  me." 

Isabel  sat  up  in  bed,  her  eyes  vividly  awake  at 
last. 

"He  proposed  to  you!  What — marriage!" 

"Yes,  of  course." 

"My  God!" 

"What  do  you  think,  Isabel?" 

"You  lucky  little  devil!" 

"Would  you  marry  him?" 

"Marry  him!  Of  course  you'll  marry  him.  You 
are  the  luckiest  little  devil  I've  ever  struck." 

"But,  listen,  darling.  That's  what  I  want  to  talk 
to  you  about.  You  see,  I'm  very  fond  of  him,  very 
fond  of  him  indeed— he's  a  perfect  dear— rbut  I 
don't  love  him,  you  know— not  really.  I  don't  feel 
I  want  him.  I  don't  love  him  as  much  as  I  do  you 
darling." 


SYSTOLE  123 

"My  Lord!  do  you  realise  what  this  means?  It 
means  'lead'  for  you  forever,  and  you  can  wangle 
all  your  pals  into  fat  parts.  It  means — you're 
made.  George  is  rich.  You'll  have  a  big  house, 
and  a  car,  and  dine  at  the  Savoy  and  the  Carlton. 
You'll  get  into  all  the  papers.  You'll  be  another 
May  Mendelssohn  without  having  to  push  for  it 
like  she's  had  to.  Oh,  you  lucky  little  wretch  1" 

"Yes,  but,  darling,  I  know  all  that  but  do  you 
think  you  could  be  happy  with  a  man  you  don't 
really  love?" 

"Love!  You'd  soon  get  to  love  him.  He's  a 
white  man,  George,  a  good  chap.  He'll  play  the 
game  by  you." 

"That's  what  I  want  to  know.  He  said — it  was 
almost  a  promise — that  love  would  come  after.  Is 
it  possible?  Does  it  ever  come  after?" 

"Of  course  it  does.  It  would  with  you.  You  can 
be  taught  to  love  in  the  same  way  that  you  can  be 
taught  to  sing  and  dance,  if  you  have  a  natural  tal- 
ent for  it.  And  if  anybody  has,  you  have.  You're 
a  passionate  little  devil.  A  man  would  have  a  good 
time  with  you.  Excuse  my  crudeness,  but  you  know 
what  I  mean." 

The  port-wine  had  gone  to  Barbara's  head.  She 
regarded  Isabel's  statement  without  disgust.  She 
wanted  to  know  the  truth  of  things.  She  rumi- 
nated. 

"When  he  kissed  me,  I  didn't  mind  it.  I  wasn't 
revolted,  as  he  suggested.  I  only  felt  that  I  didn't 
want  to  kiss  him  in  reply." 

"You  wait  till  you've  been  kissed  properly  a  few 
times;  you'll  soon  want  to  reply." 

"Isabel  darling,  all  this  'mauling  about'  you  speak 
of,  what  does  it  mean?" 


124  HEARTBEAT 

"It  means  that  when  you've  been  kissed  properly 
it  gets  into  your  blood.  You  can't  do  without  it. 
That's  why  I'm— no,  I  can't  tell  you  anything. 
You're  an  innocent  lamb.  But  I'll  tell  you  this.  You 
could  soon  get  to  love  George  in  that  particular  way 
if  you  like  him  very  much  in  the  other  way. ' ' 

" Isn't  there  a  kind  of  combination,  wheri  you 
love  a  man  in  every  way?" 

"Yes,  in  novels  and  plays,  not  in  real  life,  except 
perhaps  one  in  ten  thousand.  Don't  you  be  a  fool. 
You're  on  a  good  thing.  If  George  was  rich  and 
influential,  and  a  blackguard.  I'd  say  no,  cut  it  out. 
But  he  isn't;  everybody  in  the  profession  knows 
that  George  is  all  right." 

Barbara  finished  up  her  second  glass  of  port  and 
kissed  Isabel  more  passionately  than  the  occasion 
seemed  to  demand. 

"You're  a  darling  old  thing,"  she  said.  "I  sup- 
pose it  means  I  shall  do  it." 

Her  decision,  however,  swung  backwards  and  for- 
wards like  the  pendulum  of  a  clock.  When  the 
effects  of  the  port  had  worked  off  she  decided  not 
to  do  it.  On  a  walk  just  after  tea  she  decided  to 
do  it.  On  her  way  to  the  theatre  she  said  "No." 
"While  the  orchestra  was  tuning  up  she  thought 
"Yes."  When  she  went  to  bed  at  night  she  mur- 
mured, "No,  no,  no;  a  thousand  times  no." 

The  following  evening,  just  after  dinner,  she 
promised  George  Champneys  to  marry  him. 

XIII. 

THE  announcement  of  her  engagement  to  George 
created  a  thrill  beyond  her  wildest  expectations.  As 
she  anticipated,  the,  attitude  of  everyone  at  the 


SYSTOLE  125 

theatre  changed  electrically.,  Rosie  Ventnor  and 
the  other  girls  embraced  her  as  though  she  was, 
and  always  had  been,  their  dearest  friend.  Sydney 
Ebbway  and  his  male  colleagues  treated  her-  as  a 
person  of  consequence,  and  not  an  insignificant  little 
understudy.  Stage-hands  who  had  hitherto  ignored 
her  touched  their  hats  and  said:  "Good  evening, 
miss."  The  assistant  stage-manager,  who  had  been 
rude  and  abrupt  with  her,  cringed  with  civility. 
Moreover,  her  name  appeared  instantaneously  in 
nearly  every  daily  paper.  "Hearty  congratulations 
to  George  Champneys!  We  have  the  pleasure  to 
announce  that  the  famous  comedian  is  engaged  to 
Miss  Fancy  Telling,  a  promising  young  actress  at 
present  understudying  at  the  Frivolity.  The  wed- 
ding is  to  take  place  shortly. ' ' 

"At  present"  had  a  thrill  of  its  own.  Three 
weekly  illustrated  papers  published  her  portrait. 
Seven  photographers  wrote  begging  to  be  allowed 
to  take  her  photograph  free  of  charge.  The  leaves 
were  already  whispering  in  the  winds  of  triumph. 
The  decision  being  taken,  she  was  determined 
to  give  no  hostages  to  fortune,  to  indulge  in  no  re- 
grets or  fears.  George  was  a  person  worthy  of  her 
love,  and  she  would  love  him  to  the  very  best  of  her 
ability.  She  had  no  standard  by  which  to  judge 
the  nature  of  her  affection.  That  she  was  fond  of 
him  she  knew.  She  admired  his  genius,  his  strength, 
his  simplicity.  She  felt  happy  and  proud  in  his 
society.  She  desired  to  have  charge  of  him,  to  min- 
ister to  his  wants,  to  mother  his  weaknesses.  And 
of  that  other  love,  had  not  Isabel  said  it  could  be 
learnt?  Had  not  George  said — nay,  promised — that 
it  would  come  afterwards?  In  the  meantime  the 


126  HEARTBEAT 

days  and  nights  were  crowded  with  a  thousand  an- 
ticipations and  delights.  Amidst  their  welter  one 
thought  stood  out.  Once  married  to  George,  she 
would  reject  the  dole  her  father  had  flung  her.  She 
would  free  herself  of  the  Powerscourt  taint.  The 
price  had  been  paid.  In  marrying  George  she  would 
perhaps  reconnect  the  chain  which  her  mother's 
misjudgment  had  snapped.  Where  her  mother  had 
failed  she  would  succeed.  She  would  justify  her 
mother.  She  would  carry  on  her  story  to  a  happier 
and  worthier  climax. 

George's  days  were  very  occupied,  and  there  was 
little  time  for  dalliance.  He  gave  her  a  wonderful 
diamond  and  emerald  engagement  ring,  and  having 
placed  it  on  her  finger  he  patted  her  hand,  smiling 
in  an  expansive  and  possessive  manner,  as  much 
as  to  say: 

' ' There,  my  dear,  that's  that." 

When  they  were  alone  he  was  tenderness  itself, 
a  little  humble  and  sentimental.  She  observed  that, 
although  he  kissed  her,  he  very  seldom  "kissed  her 
properly,"  to  quote  Isabel's  phrase.  He  seemed 
terrified  of  shocking  or  frightening  her.  She  had 
never  realised  before  how  pliable  a  strong  man  may 
become.  She  could  do  anything  with  him  she  liked : 
he  was  her  slave.  This  sense  of  power,  although 
it  intoxicated  her,  fortified  some  of  her  saner  resolu- 
tions. In  the  first  place,  she  decreed  that  Rosie 
Ventnor  was  not  to  be  dismissed  so  summarily.  The 
action  would  appear,  and  be,  crude  and  venomous. 
She  suggested  that  at  first  she  should  play  a  minor 
part  in  the  revue,  and  then,  if  she  made  good  and 
the  London  public  liked  her,  she  should  eventually 
take  a  lead  in  a  later  production.  George  readily 


SYSTOLE  127 

acquiesced,  and  he  was  pleased  with  her  for  sug- 
gesting this.  In  the  first  place,  Eosie  Ventnor  was 
a  popular  favorite,  a  draw,  and  Fancy  Telling  was 
quite  unknown.  In  the  second  place,  he  was  not 
fully  persuaded  that  she  was  endowed  with  sufficient 
sense  of  comedy  to  fill  a  niche  evacuated  by  the 
popular  Rosie.  Barbara  was  a  better  singer  and  a 
better  dancer,  but  she  lacked  the  gift  of  burlesque. 
She  was  always  herself;  she  had  no  power  of  im- 
itation. She  had  the  joy  of  life,  and  she  was  not 
without  humour,  but  it  was  the  humour  of  high 
spirits  and  good  health.  Her  humour  was  never 
acid,  or  mordant,  or  particularly  subtle. 

In  his  present  mood  he  would  have  sacked  Rosie 
at  a  moment's  notice  to  please  Barbara,  but  his 
managerial  acumen  applauded  her  decision.  Not 
only  was  she  a  dear,  warm-hearted,  passionate,  en- 
tirely innocent  little  thing,  but  she  was  sensible. 
During  his  life  George  had  found  that  beauty  and 
sense  were  seldom  bed-fellows. 

He  bestirred  himself  to  please  her  in  other  ways. 
His  bachelor  house  at  South  Kensington  would 
have  to  be  renovated  and  brought  up  to  date.  The 
thought  of  it  made  him  shudder.  He  had  an  ex- 
cellent housekeeper,  an  excellent  cook,  a  reliable 
valet,  who  also  acted  as  a  dresser,  and  several  other 
servants  who  had  been  with  him  for  years.  How 
would  they  welcome  the  invasion  of  a  mistress  ?  The 
establishment  had  got  into  a  bit  of  a  groove,  per- 
haps, but  how  smoothly  and  perfectly  it  worked! 
George  was  of  opinion  that  anyone  doing  his  kind 
of  work  must  have  all  his  creature  comforts  liber- 
ally catered  to.  At  home  he  wore  a  shabby  old  suit 
and  carpet  slippers,  but  everything  in  the  household 


128  HEARTBEAT 

was  ideally  arranged.  In  the  morning  when  he  awoke 
he  pressed  a  bell  which  set  the  domestic  machinery  in 
motion.  Tea  was  brought  him  on  a  tray;  his  bath 
was  turned  on  with  the  water  regulated  to  exactly 
the  right  temperature ;  clean  linen  and  clothes  were 
put  out  for  him;  when  he  arrived  in  the  breakfast- 
room  the  silver  entree-dish  was  awaiting  him  and 
the  tea  made,  his  letters  in  a  neat  pile,  with  a  silver 
cutter  by  their  side,  and  the  daily  papers  in  an 
orderly  array  on  the  other  side  of  the  table;  after 
breakfast  the  fire  would  be  glowing  in  the  library, 
some  two  dozen  beloved  pipes  in  a  rack  by  the  side- 
board, probably  his  secretary  awaiting  him  with  a 
report  of  last  night's  returns.  He  was  a  chubby- 
faced  young  man,  and  he  would  call  out:  "Good 
morning,  guv  'nor. " 

Then  the  day's  work  would  begin.  And  the  do- 
mestic arrangements  dovetailed  themselves  with 
silent  perfection  into  the  demands  of  the  day's 
work.  He  did  not  even  say  whether  he  would  be  in 
to  meals.  A  man  in  his  position  can't  commit  him- 
self to  such  trivialities.  Anything  might  happen. 
He  might  say  yes,  and  then  the  telephone  would  go, 
and  he  would  have  to  rush  down  to  the  theatre,  or 
to  lunch  with  a  syndicate  or  a  colleague.  And  so 
these  perfectly  cooked  meals  were  always  there  if 
he  required  them,  and  if  he  brought  three  or  four 
people  in  unexpectedly  it  seemed  to  make  no  differ- 
ence. Furniture  was  polished,  curtains  cleaned, 
clothes  repaired,  breakages  replaced,  coal  stored 
for  the  winter,  rooms  vacuum-cleaned,  the  garden 
kept  in  order,  enormous  quantities  of  food  and 
drink  stowed  away  in  cellars,  and  then  either  cook- 
ed, eaten,  drunk,  wasted  or  destroyed. 


SYSTOLE  129 

And  from  all  these  details  George  kept  carefully 
aloof.  He  did  not  even  pay  the  bills.  Every  week 
this  competent  and  masterful  housekeeper,  whose 
name  was  Mrs.  Piddinghoe,  had  an  interview  with 
the  competent  and  masterly  secretary,  Mr.  Toller, 
in  the  library.  She  presented  all  the  bills,  and  he 
gave  her  cheques  for  some  and  cash  for  others.  If 
you  had  asked  George  whether  cheese  was  as  ex- 
pensive as  York  ham,  or  whether  thirty  shillings  a 
week  for  a  bachelor's  laundry  was  rather  a  lot,  he 
would  not  have  known  the  answer.  The  theatre 
was  playing  to  capacity,  and  whether  his  household 
expenses  came  to  forty  pounds  a  month  or  one  hun- 
dred and  forty  did  not  seem  of  much  importance. 

Neither  had  he  ever  known  the  shifts  and  strug- 
gles of  most  successful  actors.  He  had  always  been 
rich.  His  father  made  a  large  fortune  with  a  dye- 
works  in  Lancashire,  and  it  had  all  been  divided 
between  George  and  his  brother,  who  was  a  ship- 
broker  in  Liverpool.  After  going  to  Rugby  he  had 
spent  two  years  at  Owen's  College,  Manchester,  and 
from  there  had  entered  his  father's  dye-works  with 
a  view  to  taking  an  active  part  in  the  business.  He 
showed,  however,  little  aptitude  for  it,  and  office 
life  cramped  him.  His  fine  baritone  voice  and  droll 
sense  of  fun  delighted  his  friends  but  annoyed  his 
father,  who  was  a  hard-headed  Primitive  Method- 
ist. At  the  end  of  three  years  they  quarrelled,  and 
George  was  threatened  with  the  risk  of  learning  by 
experience  the  relative  values  of  ham  and  cheese, 
when  his  father  died  suddenly  from  blood-poison- 
ing as  the  result  of  a  trivial  accident  in  his  own 
works.  No  will  was  found,  and  so  the  estate — which 
was  assessed  at  one  hundred  and  forty-five  thousand 


130  HEARTBEAT 

pounds — was  divided  between  the  two  brothers.  The 
mother  had  died  when  they  were  at  school. 

George  then  packed  up  his  traps  and  came  to 
London.  He  had  not  at  first  any  idea  of  the  stage 
or  of  the  theatrical  enterprise.  He  was  young  and 
rich,  and  he  desired  to  see  the  world.  He  stayed  at 
a  club  in  Jermyn  Street,  and  there  he  made  friends, 
entertained,  and  went  to  concerts  and  theatres.  The 
only  thing  in  the  nature  of  work  which  he  indulged 
in  was  to  have  singing  lessons  from  a  well-known 
professor.  After  a  dozen  or  so  lessons  the  profes- 
sor became  irritated  with  him.  He  said : 

"I  can't  make  you  out,  Champneys.  You've  got 
a  good  voice,  but  I  can't  make  you  do  anything  with 
it.  It's  just  as  though  you're  laughing  at  yourself 
all  the  time." 

George  sighed,  and  reflected  deeply  upon  this  criti- 
cism. He  began  to  realise  that  it  was  true.  He 
could  sing  a  parody  of  an  Italian  opera,  or  a  Ger- 
man opera,  with  a  richness  and  fullness  of  voice  that 
would  have  done  credit  to  some  of  the  leading  opera 
singers  themselves,  but  when  he  attempted  to  sing 
seriously  it  never  came  off.  Well,  perhaps  the  pro- 
fessor was  right.  He  didn't  take  himself  seriously. 
"Why  should  he,  after  all?  He  would  see  what  ex- 
perience the  Continent  had  to  offer  him. 

He  went  to  Paris,  Vienna,  and  Buda-Pesth,  and 
indulged  in  the  normal  dissipations  of  those  cities. 
Then  he  went  on  to  Milan,  Venice,  and  Florence, 
and  at  Fiesole  he  experienced  the  first  great  love 
affair  of  his  life.  She  was  a  pretty  woman,  the  wife 
of  an  American  who  was  comfortably  ensconced  in 
his  own  country.  The  intrigue  was  unquestionably 
sordid,  but  wrapped  up  in  the  romantic  glamour  of 


SYSTOLE  131 

ilex  groves,  Renaissance  temples,  and  the  perfume 
of  white  flowers  by  moonlight.  She  was  staying 
alone  at  the  hotel,  but  was  known  by  many  people. 
They  had  to  be  circumspect,  and  therefore  sordid. 
So  great,  however,  became  the  call  of  their  mutual 
passion  that  they  sneaked  away,  and  lived  together 
for  six  weeks  at  Rapallo.  That  was  the  golden  era 
of  George's  life.  When  afterwards  he  dreamed  of 
love,  when  afterwards  he  had  other  experiences, 
that  pervading  vision  would  haunt  him — the  yellow 
sands  of  the  little  bay,  the  villa  entangled  with 
flowers  against  the  dark  trees,  Maisie  leaning  over 
the  balcony,  holding  out  her  arms.  In  that  vision 
dwelt  the  flavour  of  perpetuity. 

She  got  frightened  at  last — frightened  of  her 
friends,  of  her  fate,  of  her  husband.  He  tried  to 
persuade  her  to  stay  with  him  for  ever,  but  her 
nerves  were  all  unstrung.  She  must  go  away.  Oh 
yes,  at  once — to-day.  Maisie  was  like  that — impetu- 
ous darling! 

XIV. 

HE  never  saw  her  again.  He  wrote  innumerable 
letters,  but  they  were  never  answered.  He  wan- 
dered disconsolately  back  to  Paris.  He  had  a  vague 
idea  of  continuing  singing  and  perfecting  his 
French.  To  this  end  he  stayed  at  a  quiet  hotel  in 
Etoile  and  sought  a  new  professor.  For  a  time  he 
worked  stolidly,  avoiding  the,  normal  distractions 
of  the  Gay  City.  He  went  to  theatres,  but  more  with 
the  idea  of  studying  French  and  French  acting  than 
of  enjoying  himself.  The  attic  spirit  of  French 
comedy  and  satire  intrigued  him.  He  got  intro- 
duced to  a  famous  comedian,  with  whom  he  made 


132  HEARTBEAT 

friends,  and  it  was  in  his  house  that  he  met  Licette 
Rameau,  a  fair-haired,  vivacious  young  actress,  at 
that  time  playing  an  insignificant  part  at  the  Odeon. 
Mutual  attraction  quickly  ripened  into  a  passionate 
attachment.  Eight  months  after  the  disappearance 
of  Maisie  he  was  keeping  Licette  in  a  little  flat  near 
the  Quai  d'Orsay.  He  became  absorbed  into  Paris- 
ian theatrical  life,  where  many  distinguished  men 
kept  their  mistresses  and  were  a  little  proud  of  the 
achievement,  and  not  infrequently  took  them  about 
with  their  wives.  During  that  time  George  learnt  a 
lot  about  the  technique  of  the  French  theatre,  as 
well  as  about  the  technique  of  love  and  the  order- 
ing of  a  good  dinner.  It  cannot  be  said  that  Licette 
treated  him  very  well.  At  the  end  of  a  year  he  dis- 
covered that  she  was  getting  commissions  from 
tradespeople  for  the  goods  he  was  supplying  her! 
And  when,  a  few  weeks  later,  he  happened  to  come 
in  unexpectedly  one  evening,  and  found  a  fair- 
haired  minor  poet  hiding  in  the  bathroom,  he  de- 
cided that  the  time  had  come  to  part. 

It  was  at  about  that  time  that  he  met  Miles  Ron- 
nie. He  was  a  theatrical  manager  who  had  gone  to 
Paris  to  see  whether  there  was  anything  worth 
adapting.  In  George  he  found  the  very  man  he  was 
looking  for.  George  knew  everything  that  was  on, 
was  a  shrewd  judge,  and  spoke  French  fluently.  The 
outcome  of  their  few  days'  acquaintanceship  was 
that  George  agreed  to  translate  and  adapt  a  French 
farce.  He  arrived  in  London  a  few  weeks  later  with 
the  farce  nicely  trimmed  up  and  bowdlerised  for  the 
English  stage.  Miles  Ronnie  was  very  pleased  with 
it,  and  decided  to  send  it  on  tour;  but  what  most 
impressed  him  was  the  value  of  George  at  rehearsals. 
He  was  a  born  comedian. 


SYSTOLE  133 

"Why  in  God's  name  don't  you  come  into  the 
business  I "  he  asked  one  day. 

George  laughed.  Why  should  he  go  into  the  busi- 
ness? Nevertheless  he  found  himself  restless  and 
bored  when  not  doing  something  connected  with  the 
theatre.  One  day  he  had  a  bright  idea.  He  would 
write  a  revue  on  the  pattern  of  the  French  revue. 
He  would  write  the  libretto  and  some  of  the  lyrics, 
and  get  hold  of  some  rising  young  composer  to  do 
the  score.  The  farce  had  gone  on  tour  and  was  be- 
ing a  reasonable  success.  Miles  Bonnie  was  en- 
thusiastic at  the  idea  of  the  revue,  so  he  settled 
down  to  work.  And  then  one  evening  at  Ronnie's 
house  he  found  himself  gazing  into  the  eyes  of 
Peggy  Alcester.  They  were  deep  grey  wistful  eyes, 
with  just  sufficient  maliciousness  to  keep  them  from 
being  sentimental.  George  said  to  himself: 

"George,  old  boy,  it's  time  you  settled  down." 

He  spent  an  inspiriting  summer,  writing  and  pro- 
ducing the  revue,  and  making  love  to  Peggy.  In 
July  the  revue  was  produced,  and  failed.  In  Aug- 
ust he  proposed  to  Peggy  and  was  accepted.  Of  the 
revue  Ronnie  said: 

"It's  a  damn  good  revue,  Champneys,  only  too 
close  to  the  French  model.  You  can't  expect  to  get 
our  people  to  act  it." 

The  failure  of  the  revue  annoyed  George  intense- 
ly. He  felt  that  he  had  done  good  work,  but  that  he 
had  been  misunderstood,  and  misinterpreted.  Peggy 
went  down  to  Cornwall  with  some  friends,  and  in 
spite  of  the  temptation  to  follow  her  he  decided  to 
reconsider  some  of  the  revue,  rehearse  it  again,  and 
play  the  leading  comedian's  part  himself,  just  to 
see  whether  it  couldn't  be  made  a  success.  Ronnie 


134  HEARTBEAT 

had  laid  out  a  lot  of  money  on  it,  and  George  felt 
that  he  had  rather  let  him  down.  The  marriage  was 
arranged  for  October. 

The  revue  was  put  into  rehearsal  again,  and 
George  was  an  enormous  success  as  a  fat  show- 
man. A  seasoned  company  could  hardly  get  through 
rehearsals  for  laughing  at  him.  The  night  for  the 
new  edition  was  announced. 

Going  down  to  the  stage  for  the  dress  rehearsal 
he  met  a  telegraph-boy,  who  handed  him  a  telegram. 
When  he  read  it  he  groaned,  and  collapsed  in  the 
stone  passage.  Peggy  had  been  drowned  bathing  at 
Trevagissy. 

•  After  that  he  sulked  from  the  stage,  he  sulked 
from  life.  In  a  state  of  extreme  depression  he  went 
to  stay  with  his  brother  in  Liverpool,  and  made  a 
tentative  survey  of  ship-broking,  finance,  and  relig- 
ion. Something  within  him  hardened  and  crystal- 
lised. He  felt  that  he  had  been  badly  treated  by  life. 
He  wallowed  in  self-pity.  He  almost  decided  to  be- 
come religious,  to  marry  some  decent  girl,  whether 
he  liked  her  or  not,  have  children,  go  into  business, 
deal  with  the  world  on  its  own  terms.  But  the  wo- 
men he  met  in  his  brother's  circle  bored  him  to  a 
frenzy.  He  knew  nothing  of  their  world,  and  they 
knew  nothing  of  his.  High  finance  gave  him  a  head- 
ache. In  a  short  while  he  found  himself  sneaking 
away  alone  to  theatres  or  music-halls,  and  creeping 
into  the  bars  of  obscure  pubs  in  search  of  congenial 
society. 

One  day  he  met  a  man  shortly  leaving  for  New 
York.  An  impulsive  desire  came  over  him  to  visit 
the  New  "World.  He  managed  to  secure  a  berth  on 
the  outgoing  liner.  On  the  voyage  he  had  an  affair 


SYSTOLE  135 

with  a  French  widow;  it  was  highly  distracting,  but 
did  not  touch  him  very  profoundly.    At  Hoboken 
they  swore  eternal  fidelity,  and  never  saw  each  other 
again.    In  New  York  George  found  society  after  his 
own  heart  in  various  clubs — the  Lambs,  the  Lotus 
and  the  Players.    It  was  April,  and  the  atmosphere 
of  New  York  acted  like  wine.  His  vitality  had  never 
been  so  high.    His  previous  experiences  paled  be- 
fore this  blast  of  American  hospitality.    This  was 
indeed  a  new  world.    He  was  always  in  demand  for 
his  songs,  his  droll  stories,  his  genial  personality. 
He  became  tremendously  excited  by  the  warmth  of 
his  reception.    He  would  be  up  half  the  night,  and 
yet  not  be  tired  the  next  day.     And  then  he  met 
James  Byron  Eberfeld,  who  was  taking  a  star  com- 
pany of  top-notchers  to  tour  the  middle  Western 
States,  and  James  proposed  that  he  should  accom- 
pany them.     The  idea  fitted  in  with  his  mood,  and 
so  he  made  his  first  professional    appearance    in 
Columbus,  Ohio.    He  little  suspected  on  that  open- 
ing night  in  Columbus  that  he  was  destined  to  climb 
to  the  top  of  the  tree.    They  were  away  five  months, 
and  although  the  tour  was  a  great  success,  George 
was  not  conspicuously  successful.      They    enjoyed 
his  singing,  but  he  was  handicapped  by  his  ignor- 
ance of  the  vernacular.     His  humour  was  a  little 
too  English  in  diction  and  French  in  method,  and  at 
the  same  time  he  had  actually  had  very  little  ex- 
perience, and  his  face  and  figure  had  not  filled  out 
to  that  expansive  condition  which  later  on  invited 
a  laugh  in  itself.     They  were   a   congenial,   good- 
tempered  company,  and  he  learned  to  play  poker, 
and  eat  clams  and  hashed  beef  and  squash  pie,  and 
by  the  end  of  the  tour  his  knowledge  of  cocktails 
was  not  to  be  despised. 


136  HEARTBEAT 

Returning  to  New  York  at  the  beginning  of  Sep- 
tember, he  plunged  into  a  wild  and  unaccountable 
mood  of  dissipation.  He  had  probably  arrived  at  the 
apex  of  his  physical  powers,  and  his  moral  powers 
offered  little  resistance.  He  was  drunk  with  the 
partial  success  of  his  own  theatrical  experiences. 
The  wine  of  glamour  and  publicity  had  gone  to  his 
head.  Backed  by  his  own  considerable  fortune  he 
foresaw  the  possibilities  of  achieving  a  great  suc- 
cess. In  any  case  he  had  found  out  what  he  was  fit- 
ted for,  and  the  realisation  gave  him  a  sense  of  free- 
dom. The  stage  was  his  destiny,  and  he  would 
worry  about  women  and  domestic  happiness  no 
longer.  Women?  Yes,  but  not  as  co-mates  or  com- 
panions. -  Nothing  should  stand  between  him  and 
the  flattery  of  the  crowd,  the  augmentation  of  his 
individuality.  He  was  astute  enough  to  see  that  he 
would  have  to  go  back  home.  In  America  there 
were  many  and  excellent  comedians  working  in  their 
own  particular  genre;  he  would  not  be  able  to  com- 
pete with  them,  but  in  London  or  Paris  he  would 
be  in  his  normal  environment.  Although  the  vision 
dazzled  him,  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  to  leave 
New  York.  He  had  drifted  into  a  dubious  company 
of  underworld  spirits.  He  began  to  drink  and  car- 
ouse and  eat  into  the  capital  of  his  conscience.  He 
lived  in  a  flat  in  Twenty-Sixth  Street  with  Betty 
Saskewan,  a  woman  with  the  record  of  a  degener- 
ate, who  still  retained  certain  opulent  charms.  They 
gave  parties  which  could  only  be  described  as  orgies. 
This  unaccountable  wave  of  depravity  lasted  eight 
months.  George's  figure  grew  fat  and  puffy,  his 
face  flabby  and  lax,  his  eyes  dull  and  heavily  lined. 
And  then  one  day  he  was  seized  with  a  serious  ill- 


SYSTOLE  137 

ness.  He  was  sent  to  a  nursing-home  and  had  to 
undergo  a  major  operation**  He  hovered  between 
life  and  death,  and  Betty  vanished  into  the  Ewig- 
keit.  He  was  in  the  nursing-home  two  months,  and 
then  went  up  to  the  Adirondacks  to  recuperate.  One 
day  he  looked  at  himself  in  the  mirror,  and  he  said : 

''This  won't  do,  old  boy,  this  won't  do.  Cut  it 
out,  old  boy,  cut  it  out!" 

He  pulled  himself  together  and  obeyed  the  doc- 
tor. He  reviewed  this  period  of  abysmal  folly 
through  a  blurred  mirror  of  introspection.  He  was 
not  fundamentally  a  depraved  and  vicious  man. 
Truly  he  liked  good  things,  and  he  had  the  material 
means  and  the  physical  abundance  to  obtain  and 
enjoy  them.  He  was  a  spiritual  opportunist,  a  little 
abnormal  and  weak.  He  had  been  spoilt  by  good 
fortune,  a  strong  frame,  and  a  complete  lack  of  in- 
centive. He  was  just  carried  along  by  the  riches  of 
his  vitality.  But  now  his  vitality  was  a  little  broken 
his  fortune  considerably  impaired,  and  he  was 
lonely.  That  was  it;  he  became  convinced  that  the 
basic  cause  of  his  unwarranted  outbreak  was  the 
condition  of  utter  loneliness.  If  only  Maisie — or 
Peggy — if  he  had  only  met  Maisie  or  Peggy  when 
he  was  quite  a  young  man,  how  different  he  might 
be  now!  He  had  wandered  over  the  earth  seeking 
love,  and  he  had  found  only  entertainment.  And 
soon  he  would  be  reaching  that  stage  when  he  could 
no  longer  compel  love — the  thought  horrified  him. 
Women  would  pity  him;  they  would  throw  crumbs 
of  pity  to  his  hungry  heart.  He  had  never  been 
good-looking,  and  now  he  was  already  getting  a  little 
passe,  shop-worn. 

When  well  enough,  he  went  shamefacedly  back  to 


138  HEARTBEAT 

New  York,  and  took  the  next  boat  to  England.  After 
his  New  York  experiences  the  more  staid  atmos- 
phere of  London  fitted  in  with  his  contrite  mood. 
He  went  back  to  his  old  club  in  Jermyn  Street  and 
sought  out  some  of  his  old  theatrical  friends.  He 
met  a  man  named  Morgan  Menges  and  they  started 
a  Pierrot  entertainment  of  six,  three  men  and  three 
girls,  at  an  obscure  concert-hall  at  Netting  Hill.  The 
entertainment  was  a  complete  failure.  George  was 
unknown,  and  he  had  got  rather  out  of  touch  with 
the  topical  feeling  of  London  at  that  time.  More- 
over, people  at  Netting  Hill  don't  go  to  Pierrot  en- 
tertainments. They  lost  several  hundred  pounds, 
and  the  partnership  broke  up. 

George  was  not  unduly  discouraged.  Although 
he  had  squandered  a  good  part  of  his  fortune  he 
was  still  a  comparatively  wealthy  man;  he  could 
afford  to  start  again.  He  was  now  middle-aged,  but 
he  knew  that  he  was  at  the  zenith  of  his  powers. 
He  engaged  a  company  of  his  own  and  took  the  lease 
of  a  small  hall  in  Great  Portland  Street.  He  ad- 
vertised the  entertainment  extensively.  It  took 
London  three  years  to  recognise  that  in  George 
Champneys  it  had  a  comedian  quite  out  of  the  com- 
mon. Then  he  began  to  come  into  his  own.  That 
three  years'  hard  work  cost  him  several  thousand 
pounds,  but  it  made  his  name.  He  received  innum- 
erable offers  from  theatrical  managers.  Whilst 
hesitating  about  his  next  move  an  aunt  in  Scotland 
died  and  left  him  an  estate  consisting  of  a  large 
bleak  house  in  Fifeshire  and  many  thousand  acres 
of  land  in  varying  stages  of  cultivation.  He  went 
up  and  inspected  it,  with  a  vague  idea  of  "settling 
down."  He  spent  one  night  there,  and  awoke  to  the 


SYSTOLE  139 

horror  of  his  loneliness.  It  was  winter-time  and 
the  place  was  buried  in  a  thick  white  mist.  Dripping 
cattle  glared  menacingly  at  him  on  the  moors.  The 
natives  appeared  frigid  and  unresponsive. 

"Oh,  no,  old  boy,"  he  said,  as  he  drove  back  to 
the  station;  "you've  still  got  a  sense  of  humour 
Don't  kill  it." 

He  eventually  sold  the  whole  estate  for  twenty 
thousand  pounds.  On  his  return  to  London  the  great 
opportunity  arose.  By  a  great  deal  of  wrangling  be- 
hind the  scenes  he  obtained  a  fourteen  years'  lease 
of  the  Frivolity  Theatre.  He  engaged  some  of  the 
best  artists  of  the  day,  librettists,  composers,  con- 
ductors and  actors.  He  welded  the  ideas  of  a  dozen 
people  into  a  gigantic  Pierrot  entertainment,  forti- 
fied by  rather  elaborate  scenery  and  properties.  He 
played  the  principal  part  himself,  but  he  was  care- 
ful to  see  that  the  rest  of  the  company  were  not  only 
good  artists  but  that  they  had  names.  The  thing 
began  reasonably  well,  and,  its  success  increased 
like  a  snowball  being  rolled  down  a  hill.  Within  a 
year  it  was  the  one  big  attraction  of  the  town. 
George  worked  hard  and  spent  money  lavishly.  New 
material  was  constantly  introduced,  new  ideas, 
songs,  gags,  scenes,  properties  purchased  regard- 
less of  cost.  Surprisingly  ignorant  on  matters  of 
business  and  finance,  he  nevertheless  had  the  knack 
of  picking  the  right  man  for  the  job.  He  had  clever 
managers,  and  secretaries  and  producers — men  who 
had  been  in  it  all  their  lives. 

The  effect  of  this  sudden  leap  to  fame  and  suc- 
cess reacted  upon  him  rather  surprisingly.  It  made 
him  swollen-headed  and  egotistical,  but  in  a  man- 
ner that  it  was  easy  to  conceal.  Generally  speaking, 


140  HEARTBEAT 

it  mellowed  him.  He  became  essentially  calmer, 
more  considerate  of  others,  gentler  and  kinder. 
Everyone  connected  with  the  theatre  adored  him. 
Perhaps  under  the  circumstances  it  was  not  diffi- 
cult to  be  generous  and  kind;  but  the  quality  of 
consideration  for  others  is  always  rare.  It  was  as 
though  the  emotional  experiences  of  his  life  had 
disillusioned  him  in  the  search  for  personal  grati- 
fication; he  had  become  simply  the  medium  for  the 
entertainment  of  his  fellow-man.  He  regarded  him- 
self detachedly,  but  with  a  comfortable  sense  of 
complacency.  Spiritually,  perhaps,  he  had  settled 
down. 

As  the  years  went  on  this  aspect  of  him  became 
more  accentuated.  If  the  loneliness  were  there  it 
was  warmed  by  the  glow  of  service  and  accomplish- 
ment. Emotional  dreams  were  destroyed  by  the 
friction  of  physical  realities.  "Put  it  all  by,  old 
boy,  put  it  all  by." 

He  was  quite  happy;  too  busy  to  be  otherwise. 
Erotic  desires  were  captive  to  the  bow  and  spear 
of  youth.  Heigho !  a  man  who  ceases  to  desire  can- 
not be  said  to  resist  temptation.  The  star  of  his 
moral  abstractions  was  becoming  fixed.  His  pulses 
beat  to  the  steady  rhythm  of  ordered  life. 

And  then  one  day  he  beheld  Barbara — whom  he 
had  known  for  three  years — and  he  realised  that  he 
was  seeing  her  for  the  first  time.  Her  hair  was 
ruffled,  her  eyes  troubled,  tears  swimming  in  their 
mystic  depths.  She  was  unhappy,  wanting  some- 
thing terribly,  hungry  for — the  thing  he  had  missed. 
The  desire  to  touch  her  was  almost  irresistible — la 
pauvre  innocentel 


SYSTOLE  141 

XV. 

THE  wedding  was  as  quiet  as  it  is  possible  for  a 
theatrical  wedding  to  be.  That  is  to  say,  that  it  was 
understood  that  only  intimate  friends  of  the  bride 
and  bridegroom  were  to  be  invited,  but  many  people 
got  wind  of  it,  and  the  little  church  at  Kensington 
was  fairly  crowded  when  these  two  went  through  a 
service  which  neither  of  them  believed  in,  and  when 
Barbara  promised  to  love,  honour  and  obey  one  of 
the  greatest  comedians  of  his  time. 

It  took  place  in  August,  between  the  run  of  two 
productions,  so  that  they  were  able  to  get  away  for 
two  weeks '  honeymoon.  All  the  company  were  there, 
and  George  was  in  very  good  spirits.  Barbara  was 
solemn  and  wide-eyed,  and  Isabel  wept  abundant- 
ly. They  went  to  St.  Mawes,  the  little  fishing  village 
lopposite  Falmouth,  and  Barbara  persuaded  herself 
that  she  had  met  the  idol  of  her  dreams.  She  was, 
indeed,  deliriously  happy.  The  weather  was  glori- 
ous, in  spite  of  the  heat.  They  bathed,  lolled,  and 
basked  in  the  sun.  George  seemed  to  revert  sud- 
denly to  boyhood.  He  was  a  child,  whimsical,  pas- 
sionate, rather  sentimental.  He  could  not  bear  her 
out  of  his  sight.  He  anticipated  all  her  desires, 
waited  on  her,  smothered  her  with  kindness,  pres- 
ents, flowers,  surprises.  He  sustained  the  fantastic 
mood  that  he  had  been  in  on  that  summer's  after- 
noon when  he  found  the  three  girls  in  the  Stradlings' 
drawing-room  and  talked  about  the  weird  animals. 
He  treated  her  alternately  like  a  child  and  like  a 
mother.  That  which  he  had  vaguely  yearned  for 
all  through  life  he  found  in  the  mere  contact  of  her 
presence,  the  mere  knowledge  that  she  was  there 
near  him,  needing  him,  relying  on  him. 


142  HEARTBEAT 

Oh,  but  he  would  be  good  and  tender  with  her.  In 
the  darkness  of  the  night  some  of  the  ugly  memories 
of  the  past  would  torture  him.  Was  it  too  late? 
Was  he  justified  in  doing  this  thing?  He  had  wealth, 
position,  a  name;  but  was  that  any  recompense  for 
what  she  was  giving  him?  He  would  listen  to  her 
gentle  breathing,  and  place  his  fat  face  against  the 
strands  of  her  hair  scattered  between  the  two  pil- 
lows. He  loved  the  perfume  of  her  hair ;  it  had  the 
tang  of  vital  essences.  Maisie?  Peggie? — yes,  but 
those  other  women!  Oh,  he  would  give  Barbara 
everything;  he  would  make  up  to  her  in  passionate 
solicitude,  tenderness,  self-sacrifice.  Would  she  in 
time  give  him  that  love  he  so  avidly  desired?  Bar- 
bara was  fond  of  him,  but  he  had  at  present  no  phy- 
sical attraction  for  her.  She  was  a  little  bewildered, 
frightened,  almost  disgusted — and  he  had  promised 
her  that  "love  would  come  after."  Well,  why  not? 
How  horribly  hot  the  nights  were !  George  was  not 
his  best  in  the  hot  weather. 

His  mind  ran  on  the  arrangements  he  would  make 
in  town.  He  would  be  anxious  not  to  take  advan- 
tage of  his  position,  not  to  trespass  upon  her  free- 
dom unduly,  not  to  worry  her.  They  would  have 
separate  beds  in  the  same  room.  She  would  like 
that  better.  She  should  have  a  dressing-room  of 
her  own,  and  a  boudoir,  and  a  maid.  She  should 
have  the  best  parts,  the  best  songs  in  the  revues. 
And  then,  one  day  perhaps,  she  would  have  a  child 
— he  passionately  desired  a  child.  It  must  be  a  girl, 
an  infant  Barbara. 

Barbara  lived  in  a  dreamland  in  which  anticipa- 
tion was  perhaps  a  more  imminent  factor  than  reali- 
sation. The  sun  shone  on  the  dancing  waters  of  the 


SYSTOLE  143 

bay.  Fishing-boats  crept  lazily  hither  and  thither. 
The  people  in  this  old-world  village  were  friendly 
and  good  to  look  upon.  On  the  other  side  of  the 
Carrick  Roads  the  low  line  of  the  Cornish  hills 
forms  a  broad  vista  of  enchanting  beauty,  in  which 
the  details  were  invisible  and  mysterious,  like  that 
bold  vision  of  the  life  which  was  before  her. 

George  was  a  dear.  She  had  done  something  big 
in  marrying  him,  and  her  heart  rejoiced.  Back  in 
London,  she  would  be  a  person  of  importance — a 
power.  She  would  help  people— Isabel,  that  little 
girl-accompanist  she  had  met  on  tour,  odd,  pathetic 
characters  who  had  drifted  across  her  life.  She 
would  look  after  George's  house,  make  him  happier 
and  more  comfortable.  She  had  learnt  profoundly 
how  "to  look  after  herself."  On  tour  she  had  learnt 
how  to  cook,  and  sew,  and  mend.  She  knew  the  value 
of  things,  and  how  to  economise,  get  the  best  out  of 
the  domestic  equation.  She  should  suggest  that 
they  have  separate  beds.  George  was  restless,  humid 
and  noisy  in  bed — perhaps  one  day  she  would  be 
able  to  get  a  separate  bedroom,  and  a  dressing- 
room,  and  a  maid.  She  would  try  and  not  interfere 
with  him  and  his  mode  of  life.  She  would  not  take 
advantage  of  her  position  as  his  wife.  Then  per- 
haps one  day  she  would  have  a  child.  She  passion- 
ately desired  a  child.  It  must  be  a  boy,  and  his 
name — well,  there  was  time  to  discuss  that  later. 

You  see,  they  agreed  about  practically  everything. 
They  had  great  fun  writing  to  the  lawyer  about 
Barbara's  sacrifice  of  her  father's  legacy.  George 
had  no  objection  at  all.  He  was  very  amused,  and 
said  he  would  like  her  to  write  the  letter  herself, 


144  HEARTBEAT 

and  let  him  see  how  cleverly  she  worded  it.  And 
this  is  what  Barbara  wrote : 

DEAR  SIR, 

Re  Thomas  Powerscourt  Estate. 

I  beg  to  say  that  re  the  above  I  shall  not  require  my  allowance 
any  longer,  neither  do  I  wish  to  have  any  say  in  the  disposition  of 
it.  The  money  is  just  to  go  back  into  the  pool.  You  can  do  what 
you  like  with  it. 

Yours  faithfully, 

BARBARA    (POWERSCOURT). 

When  George  read  this  letter  he  slapped  his  leg 
and  the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks  with  laughter. 

"You're  a  perfect  little  lawyer,"  he  cried.  "Oh, 
dear!  that's  lovely! — 'You  can  do  what  you  like 
with  it' — and  then  the  bracket  round  i Powerscourt ' ! 
0  Fancy,  Fancy,  come  here  and  let  me  kiss  you." 

They  motored  all  the  way  back  from  Falmouth, 
stopping  a  night  at  Exeter,  a  night  at  Winchester, 
and  a  night  at  Oxford.  It  was  all  very  thrilling  and 
beautiful,  but  the  most  thrilling  moment  to  Bar- 
bara was  when  the  car  glided  over  Westminister 
Bridge  and  she  beheld  the  House  of  Commons,  and 
Big  Ben,  and  the  dim  profile  of  the  Abbey,  like  of- 
ficial portents  welcoming  her  to  the  city  she  meant 
to  conquer. 

XVI. 

DUEING  their  absence  the  house  in  South  Kensing- 
ton had  been  re-decorated,  and  to  Barbara's  delight 
she  found  a  little  white-panelled  boudoir  upholster- 
ed in  powder-blue  silk.  It  was  for  her  very  own. 

' '  Oh,  George,  how  clever  of  you ! ' '  she  exclaimed. 
"My  favourite  colour!" 

"Is  it?  Well,  now,  that's  lucky,"  he  answered. 
Then  he  suddenly  gripped  her  from  behind  and, 


SYSTOLE  145 

pressing    his    cheek    against   hers,    he    whispered 
hoarsely : 

"Do  you  think  I  didn't  know  your  favourite 
colour?'* 

She  thrilled  with  delight  as  she  yielded  to  his  em- 
brace. He  was  a  thoughtful  dear. 

The  efficient  housekeeper,  Mrs.  Piddinghoe,  was 
early  in  evidence.  The  house  was  spotless  and  in 
perfect  order.  Discreet  maids  appeared.  Her  things 
were  unpacked  and  put  away  in  drawers.  Fresh 
flowers  were  in  all  the  rooms.  The  mellow  sound 
of  a  gong  announced  the  prelude  to  a  dinner,  which 
she  had  not  even  had  the  onus  of  selecting. 

"I  don't  want  you  to  be  bothered  about  any  of 
these  domestic  things,  old  girl,"  George  explained. 
Well,  she  was  not  particularly  interested  in  domes- 
tic things.  In  her  father's  house  she  had  been  un- 
conscious of  them.  On  tour,  and  when  living  with 
Isabel,  she  had  been  brought  into  abrupt  contact 
with  them,  and  she  had  mastered  them  fairly  suc- 
cessfully, but  they  did  not  give  her  any  particular 
joy.  She  did  not  want  to  meddle  in  domestic  things. 

If  during  the  course  of  the  next  few  days  she 
sometimes  felt  a  slight  jar  upon  her  proprietary 
sense,  in  the  idea  that  she  was  living  in  an  hotel,  or 
rather  that  she  was  living  in  George's  house  as  an 
honoured  guest,  she  consoled  herself  with  the  re- 
flection that— well,  George  liked  to  arrange  things 
like  that,  and,  after  all,  it  was  the  theatre  which 
mattered,  her  art,  her  career. 

Even  if  she  had  wished  it,  there  was  indeed  little 
time  to  worry  about  domestic  affairs.  Rehearsals 
of  the  new  revue  started  at  once.  They  spent  nearly 
all  day  at  the  theatre.  George  would  lunch  at  the 


146  HEARTBEAT 

club  with  some  important  man,  whilst  she  went  out 
with  some  of  the  girls  to  a  restaurant.  Before  they 
left  in  the  morning  and  after  they  got  home  at  night, 
the  telephone  would  be  ringing,  all  kinds  of  people 
calling  with  messages,  and  scores,  and  contracts, 
and  estimates,  and  songs  to  be  tried,  and  dialogue 
to  be  read  over.  So  great  was  the  rush  and  strain 
that  she  quickly  realised  how  valuable  was  this 
smoothly  working  domestic  machine. 

It  was  the  action  of  this  other  machine — the  thea- 
trical one — which  absorbed  her  attention  at  the 
moment.  As  Mrs.  George  Champneys  she  inspired 
interest  and  respect  from  everyone;  moreover  all 
the  members  of  the  company  liked  her.  But  when 
the  machine  began  to  get  into  operation  she  found 
that  Fancy  Telling  was  not  such  an  impressive  prop- 
osition as  she  had  imagined.  George  was  nomin- 
ally the  producer,  but  actually  the  producer  was  a 
young  man  with  raven-black  hair  and  eyes  like  an 
eagle,  whose  name  was  Julius  Banstead.  He  was 
a  live  wire,  and  he  positively  frightened  her.  In- 
credibly quick  and  clever,  he  cared  not  a  jot  for  any 
man  or  woman.  He  would  even  bully  George,  and 
George  would  take  it  like  a  lamb,  knowing  that  Ban- 
stead  was  supreme  at  his  job.  The  broad  outline  of 
the  entertainment  was  but  sketchily  conceived.  They 
had  a  mass  of  material  which  they  welded  together, 
ruthlessly  discarding  some,  extemporising  some. 
The  thing  was  built  up  gradually.  The  stage  seem- 
ed to  be  crowded  by  a  bewildering  collection  of  au- 
thors, composers,  managers,  engineers,  choreo- 
graphers, to  say  nothing  of  actors,  all  trying  to  as- 
sert their  own  individual  claims.  And  in  the  midst 
of  it  all  Julius  Banstead  darted  hither  and  thither, 


SYSTOLE  147 

exercising  an  autocratic  sway.  By  his  side  was  an 
assistant  stage-manager  with  the  book,  and  Ban- 
stead  would  frequently  turn  to  him  and  say: 

"We'll  have  all  that  out,  Thomson." 

There  appeared  to  be  no  appeal;  a  stylographic 
pen  destroyed  the  fair  anticipations  of  more  artistes 
than  Fancy  Telling.  Her  own  part,  which  at  first 
promised  to  be  voluminous,  was  whittled  down  and 
whittled  down.  A  scene  in  which  she  was  to  play 
a  Dutch  girl  was  cut  out.  He  did  not  like  her 
parody  of  a  forlorn  heroine  in  a  costume  play,  and 
gave  the  part  to  another  girl.  He  cut  out  her  song 
about  "An  Afternoon  in  Tennessee,"  and  reduced 
a  skit  concerned  with  an  hotel  lift,  in  which  she 
played  the  part  of  a  country  girl  up  for  the  day,  to 
a  three-minutes  turn,  whereas  it  was  originally  in- 
tended to  occupy  twelve.  When  the  final  rehearsals 
were  reached  she  found  that  this  was  all  that  was 
left  to  her,  with  the  exception  of  two  rather  senti- 
mental songs,  one  of  which  concerned  a  Venetian 
night  and  the  other  a  "Lullaby  Among  the  Reeds." 

Eather  disconsolately  she  appealed  to  George 
about  this.  The  great  man  said:  "Never  mind,  old 
girl;  we'll  work  it  up  big  later.  Better  to  start 
slow.  Banstead  knows  what's  best." 

His  own  part  had  expanded  rather  than  dimin- 
ished. But  then  George  was  the  show.  The  people 
paid  to  come  and  see  George,  and  they  expected  him 
to  be  on  the  stage  nearly  all  the  time.  Banstead 
knew  what  was  best. 

Another  disappointment  was  that  not  by  any 
means  could  she  persuade  George  or  Banstead  to 
engage  Isabel.  Her  old  friend  was  now  well  again, 
but  out  of  work  and  very  hard  up.  The  only  thing 
Barbara  succeeded  in  doing  was  to  get  money  out  of 


148  HEARTBEAT 

George  to  send  her.  She  sent  her  fifty  pounds. 
When  she  spoke  to  George  about  engaging  her  he 
said: 

"It's  all  fixed  up,  old  girl.  We'll  try  another 
time." 

Banstead  said: 

" Isabel  Weare?  No,  she's  slow  in  the  uptake. 
Mrs.  Champneys.  Not  enough  pep  for  this  show." 

She  realised  the  truth  of  this.  The  whole  thing 
was  a  wonderful  sample  of  "pep."  There  were  no 
waste  spaces  or  holes.  Nothing  was  sacrificed  to 
sentimentality  of  association.  Everything  was  fined 
down,  worked  at,  polished  till  there  was  not  a  phrase 
or  a  note  that  would  not  tell.  She  sometimes  won- 
dered whether  she  herself  was  not  the  only  "sacri- 
fice to  sentimentality  of  association."  Certainly  if 
she  had  not  been  George's  wife  she  would  not  have 
secured  this  part. 

The  position  reminded  her  of  that  day  when  she 
had  met  her  father  being  smuggled  off  to  the  House 
of  Commons,  and  when  she  tried  to  stop  him,  and 
she  had  felt  that  she  was  opposing  her  will  to  the 
will  of  vast  blocks  of  interests.  George  and  Ban- 
stead  were  somewhat  the  same.  They  represented 
a  tradition,  a  machine.  They  were  the  agents  of  a 
stern  popular  demand. 

She  felt  a  little  envious  of  the  other  three  girls, 
Rosie  Ventnor,  Polly  Ravasol  and  Gine  Sterne. 
They  were  so  finished,  so  self-confident,  so  profes- 
sional. Between  this  standard  of  entertainment 
and  the  tours  she  had  been  used  to  there  was  a  great 
gulf  fixed.  Well,  there  it  was.  She  would  make  the 
best  of  her  small  chances,  and  perhaps  one  day  she 
would  excel  them  all.  It  was  something  to  be  on  at 


SYSTOLE  149 

a  leading  London  show  and  the  wife  of  a  leading 
London  showman. 

One  Sunday  night  George  took  her  to  the  Savoy 
to  supper.  She  tasted  for  the  first  time  the  glamour 
of  publicity.  Opulent-looking  gentlemen  and  gorge- 
ously dressed  girls  glanced  at  their  table  and  whis- 
pered. She  knew  what  they  were  saying : 

"That's  George  Champneys.  And  that's  Fancy 
Telling,  the  young  actress  he  has  just  married." 

They  drank  champagne  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with 
the  gaiety  of  this  new  adventure.  When  they  had 
reached  the  Peche  Melba  stage  a  tall,  well-dressed 
societyish  girl  came  up  to  their  table  and  said : 

"Excuse  me,  isn't  it — Barbara?" 

Barbara  looked  hard  at  her  and  exclaimed: 

'  *  Why,  it 's— Cicely !  Oh,  Cicely,  what  ages !  How 
are  you,  darling?" 

Dear  her !  Cicely  had  altered.  A  formal,  slightly 
supercilious  smile  played  round  the  corners  of  her 
pretty  mouth.  She  held  out  her  hand  primly,  as 
though  afraid  that  Barbara  might  embrace  her. 

"Yes,  it's  Cicely,  Barbara." 

"Oh,  how  ripping!  This  is  my  husband— George 
Champneys.  Oh,  of  course  you  know  him !  This  is 
Cicely  Stradling,  George.  Don't  you  remember  I  We 
met  at  her  house." 

The  two  shooks  hands.  George  had  forgotten  her, 
and  Cicely  said  quickly: 

"I'm  here  with  my  husband,  too— Colonel  Hus- 
kisson.  We  are  sitting  over  by  the  wall.  Shall  we 
have  coffee  together,  and  then  we  can  exchange 
news?" 

The  husbands  were  formally  introduced  and  they 
all  took  coffee  together. 


150  HEARTBEAT 

Yes,  Cicely  had  changed.  The  lines  about  her 
mouth  and  eyes  had  hardened.  She  spoke  with  a 
slight  drawl.  Gone  was  all  the  girlish  abandonment 
of  that  summer  day.  Her  husband  was  a  thin,  sun- 
burnt man  with  a  grey  moustache ;  he  must  have  been 
a  good  ten  or  fifteen  years  older  than  Cicely.  He 
appeared  a  little  disconcerted  at  meeting  the  large 
comedian — a  little  uncertain  as  to  whether  it  was 
quite  the  thing  to  be  seen  in  the  company  of  theatri- 
cal people.  Barbara  eagerly  pumped  her  freind  for 
news. 

"Where  is  Jean,  Cicely!" 

"Oh,  Jean  is  married,  too,  my  dear.  She  is  in  In- 
dia. Her  husband  is  a  Government  assessor.  He 
travels  a  good  deal;  Jean  lives  mostly  at  Simla." 

"Is  she  happy!" 

"Oh,  yes,  she  likes  the  life.  She  gets  crowds 
of  parties,  and  picnics,  and  riding." 

Jean !  jolly  little  chubby-faced  Jean !  What  a  long 
way  off  she  seemed !  not  only  physically,  but — what 
sort  of  life  was  this :  parties  and  picnics  and  riding 
in  Anglo-Indian  society?  She  had  lost  them  both, 
these  two  girls.  In  our  youth  we  dream  of  perpetual 
friendships ;  and  then  we  drift  apart,  and  when  we 
meet  again  there  lies  between  us  the  heavy  barrier 
of  unfamiliar  experiences.  It  sounded  so  jolly — 
parties  and  picnics  and  riding — but  who  knew  what 
tragedy  might  lie  behind  it?  And  Cicely,  with  her 
formal  graciousness  and  her  perfectly-coiffured  hair 
— no,  she  didn't  look  happy.  Only  she,  Barbara,  was 
happy.  She  was  already  a  few  rungs  up  the  ladder 
of  fame.  She  was  married  to  a  dear  and  famous 
man.  She  was  rich  and  popular,  and  living  in  a 
world  congenial  to  her.  This  society  life  inhabited 
by  Jean  and  Cicely  was  alien,  frigid  and  unattractive. 


SYSTOLE  151 

How  they  had  drifted  apart,  indeed!  The  cham- 
pagne had  gone  a  little  to  her  head,  and  she  sparkled 
and  chatted  to  Cicely,  telling  her  many  details  of 
her  new  life,  of  the  thrill  of  experience,  of  the  fame 
and  generosity  of  her  husband.  Two  young  men 
at  the  next  table  were  devouring  her  with  their  eyes, 
and  their  attention  added  an  elfish  glamour  to  the 
narrative  of  triumph. 

It  was  getting  late  when  Cicely  suddenly  re- 
marked : 

"Sad  about  poor  Billy  Hamaton,  wasn't  it?" 

Barbara  felt  a  strange  contraction  of  her  heart. 
So  absorbed  had  she  been  in  the  record  of  her  vital 
experiences  she  had  not  even  talked  about  Billy. 
She  had  forgotten  Billy  and  the  days  when  they 
four  were  all  children  together.  And  here  was  Cicely 
saying  in  the  same  chilling  voice  she  employed  for 
every  remark:  "Sad  about  poor  Billy  Hamaton." 
What  did  she  mean?  Barbara  puckered  her  brows 
and  could  not  frame  the  question. 

Cicely  continued  in  the  same  tones: 

' '  Haven 't  you  heard  ?    He  died  three  months  ago. '  > 

"What?" 

She  wanted  to  scream.  She  wanted  to  cry  out  to 
all  these  well-dressed  people. 

"Leave  off  eating,  and  drinking,  and  flirting;  oh, 
leave  off !  Billy  is  dead — he  died  three  months  ago, 
and  I  was  the  cause  of  his  death.  And  I  never  even 
asked  about  him.  I  was  cruel  and  utterly  callous. 
If  the  branch  of  that  tree  had  not  broken  he  would 
now  be  my  husband — not  George.  I  can  see  his 
young,  jolly,  freckled  face  right  up  in  the  leaves 
against  the  sky,  his  brown  hair  all  awry.  I  can  hear 
his  laughing  voice:  'Come  on,  then,  my  flibbertigib- 


152  HEARTBEAT 

bet. '  And  then  he  sat  by  my  side  on  the  branch,  and 
there  seemed  to  be  no  earth  beneath,  only  this  green 
fairway  leading  to  the  heavens,  and  he  said,  'I  love 
you,  Barbara. '  And  then  .  .  .  and  then.  .  .  .  Oh, 
God!" 

She  looked  around  stonily  at  the  festive  scene. 
One  of  the  young  men  at  the  next  table  openly  smiled 
at  her,  challenging  her  with  his  eyes.  George  was 
smoking  a  cigar,  and  saying  in  his  deep  actor's 
voice : 

1  'I  tell  you  where  you  can  get  the  best  Napoleon 
brandy  in  the  world — at  Fleuret's.  It's  in  a  little 
street  just  off  the  Faubourg  St.  Honore;  I  can't  re- 
member the  name.  I  used  to  know  old  Fleuret  very 
well.  He  won't  part  with  it  unless  he  likes  your 
face,  and  then  he  charges  twelve  francs  for  a 
nip " 

She  rose  and  touched  his  shoulder. 

' 'We  must  be  going,  George.    I  want  to  go." 

He  regarded  her  sleepily. 

"All  right,  old  girl.    We  won't  be  five  minutes." 

She  shrank  back  in  her  chair,  her  impulses  held 
in  check  by  the  heavy  pressure  of  her  environment. 

XVII. 

THE  revue  was  called  " Black  and  White"— a  title 
justified  (the  programme  explained)  by  the  connec- 
tion of  the  costumes  of  the  Pierrot  troupe  with  the 
spirit  of  the  age — and  it  proved  to  be  one  of  the 
most  successful  of  the  Frivolity  productions.  With 
various  additions,  excisions  and  slight  alterations  it 
ran  for  a  year.  Barbara's  two  songs  went  better  than 
she  had  expected,  and  "The  Lullaby  Among  the 
Reeds  "was  encored  nightly,  and  made  its  appearance 


SYSTOLE  153 

on  barrel  organs  and  in  the  vocal  exploits  of  ambi- 
tious young  ladies  in  suburban  drawing-rooms.  She 
sang  both  songs  extremely  well,  and  in  an  alluring 
black-and-white  silk  frock  and  ruffles  she  made  a 
figure  not  unworthy  of  this  distinguished  group.  She 
was  disappointed  that  nearly  all  the  Press  reviews 
spoke  only  of  George  and  Rosie  Ventnor  and  the 
droll  Mr.  Ebbway,  and  that  the  best  notice  of  herself 
only  said : 

"A  song  likely  to  catch  on  is  'The  Lullaby  Among 
the  Reeds.'  It  was  charmingly  rendered  by  Miss 
Fancy  Telling  (now  Mrs.  George  Champneys),  who 
promises  to  be  a  useful  addition  to  the  clever  com- 
pany. ' ' 

Nevertheless  she  felt  that  on  the  whole  she  had 
no  cause  for  complaint.  She  had  been  tested  and  not 
found  wanting.  All  the  company  were  charming  to 
her.  George  was  so  excited  on  the  first  night  that  he 
kissed  her  every  time  she  came  off,  and,  not  to  seem 
too  partial,  he  kissed  all  the  other  girls  at  least 
once.  The  novelty  of  this  first-night  excitement 
and  enthusiasm  thrilled  her.  But  perhaps  her  proud- 
est moment  was  when  Mr.  Banstead,  the  great  Julius 
Banstead  himself,  came  up  afterwards  and,  gripping 
her  hand,  said: 

4 'Fine,  Miss  Telling!    Fine!   You  did  splendidly. 

And  in  the  days  that  followed  her  cup  of  happi- 
ness was  very  full.  The  novelty  of  the  situation 
kept  her  awake  at  night  with  nervous  excitement. 
For  a  time  rehearsals  were  over,  and  she  had  the 
leisure  to  put  her  world  in  order,  to  rearrange  her 
rooms  to  buy  additional  furniture,  and  to  go  shop- 
ping in  George's  new  car.  And  then  the  French 
maid  arrived  Was  there  ever  anything  so  luxun- 


154  HEARTBEAT 

ous  as  a  maid  all  to  oneself  I  And  being  French 
added  a  queer  piquancy  to  the  luxury.  Oh,  the  great 
day  when  Isabel  came  to  tea  in  the  powder-blue 
boudoir!  And  Barbara  in  a  wonderful  rest  gown 
of  a  similar  colour  presided  over  a  glittering  silver 
tray.  And  the  dark-eyed,  pretty  Annette,  smartly 
attired  in  fawn  and  white,  darted  in  at  her  bidding, 
and  at  every  request  exclaimed : 

"Mais  oui,  madame."  "  Par  fait  ement,  madame." 
"Jele  fais  tout  de  suite,  madame." 

Barbara  hardly  knew  any  French,  but  to  be  ad- 
dressed like  that  raised  her  spirits  heavenwards. 
And  then  the  cosy  chat  with  Isabel,  recounting  old 
times,  discussing  mutual  friends,  a  dash  of  scandal, 
Barbara  unable  to  resist  a  boast  or  two  about  her 
furs  and  their  cost,  her  Sheraton  writing  table,  the 
dinner  at  the  Savoy,  the  run  in  the  car  last  Sunday 
down  to  Burford  Bridge,  and  the  lunch  at  the  inn; 
George's  genius,  what  the  Press  said  of  him,  how  the 
company  loved  him,  the  parts  she  was  going  to  play 
in  the  future. 

Poor  Isabel!  She  was  still  pretty  and  adorable. 
Certainly  adorable,  perhaps  not  quite  so  pretty  as 
she  had  been;  the  little  wrinkles  were  creeping 
round  her  eyes,  her  figure  becoming  a  little  sloppier, 
her  movements  slower.  Well-dressed,  of  course,  in 
a  "managed"  kind  of  way.  She  looked  worried.  A 
woman  who  relies  on  her  talents,  on  her  beauty,  on 
her  body,  can't  help  worrying  sometimes.  Barbara 
was  still  helping  her  with  money;  there  was  vague 
talk  of  a  tour  in  two  months'  time.  She  examined 
all  Barbara's  things  with  interest,  and  loyally  tried 
not  to  display  jealousy. 

"Does  George  make  you  an  allowance?"  she  asked 
at  one  point.  Barbara  laughed. 


SYSTOLE  155 

"An  allowance!  Oh,  no.  Why  should  he?  He 
gives  me  everything  I  want.  I  just  order  things,  and 
the  account  is  sent  in  to  him.  He  always  gives  me 
any  money  I  want.  He  has  often  said  that  every- 
thing of  his  is  equally  mine. ' ' 

"H'm,  that's  all  very  well,"  commented  Isabel. 
"Don't  you  be  a  fool.  You  stick  out  for  a  settle- 
ment. He'd  give  it  to  you  at  the  moment;  later  on 
— well,  you  never  know.  Don't  you  see,  while  he 
talks  like  that  and  treats  you  like  that,  he's  got  a 
hold  over  you  all  the  time?" 

"Oh,  but,  Isabel  jdarling — George  He  would 
never  dream  ...  I  couldn't  think  of  asking  any- 
thing like  that.  It  sounds  so  mercenary,  so  distrust- 
ful." 

Isabel  shook  her  head. 

"I  know  it  sounds  so,  but  you  haven't  been  round 
so  many  corners  as  I  have.  You  haven't  had  so 
many  pals  married  as  I  have.  You  never  know. 
There  was  Meggie  Farino  married  Reuben  Jaikes — 
like  a  couple  of  turtle-doves  they  were — and  then 
something  went  wrong  one  day.  Meggie  got  mixed 
up  with  a  boy  at  the  Grand  Hotel  at  Dieppe.  Eeuben 
had  never  made  a  settlement,  and  he  chucked  her 
out  without  a  penny. 

Barbara  was  highly  amused. 

"Then  it's  me  you  don't  trust,  Isabel,  not 
George!" 

"You  never  know,  I  say.  It's  always  as  well  to 
keep  on  the  safe  side  in  a  theatrical  marriage.  Look 
at  Polly  Patterson  at  the  Gaiety,  who  got  spliced 
with  Lord  Underwick.  She  got  a  settlement  of  fifty 
thousand  quid,  and  when  he  went  fooling  round  with 
that  little  Spanish  dancer,  after  they'd  been  married 


156  HEARTBEAT 

a  year,  she  just  snapped  her  fingers  at  him.  What 
did  she  care?  She'd  got  the  title  and  fifty  thou- 
sand." 

"You've  got  a  nasty  cynical  mind,  Isabel;  I  refuse 
to  discuss  the  matter  with  you.  Have  another  crum- 
pet." 

Barbara  was  not  at  all  affected  by  Isabel's  sinis- 
ter warnings.  Nothing  could  be  securer  or  more 
roseate  than  her  lot.  As  the  months  went  by  she  ad- 
justed herself  more  completely  to  her  position.  The 
physical  aspect  of  marriage  ceased  to  have  any  ter- 
rors for  her.  This  was  partly  due  to  the  greater 
freedom  and  the  greater  consideration  George  al- 
lowed her.  His  devotion  increased.  Although  his 
time  was  so  occupied  he  snatched  every  moment  that 
could  be  spared  to  pass  in  her  company.  He  ap- 
peared never  so  happy  as  when  they  were  alone. 
He  trusted  her  implicitly,  and  she  gradually  became 
to  him  more  the  mother  than  the  child.  His  health 
was  not  always  of  the  best,  and  at  times  when  he 
became  sorry  for  himself  he  loved  to  have  her  fuss- 
ing over  him.  His  large  eyes  would  become  moist 
with  sentimental  adoration.  He  would  regard  her 
pathetically,  like  a  large  dog  regarding  an  intangible 
mistress.  During  the  stress  of  his  profession  he  was 
a  little  inclined  to  overlook  her — he  seldom  con- 
sulted her  about  the  details  of  his  productions,  and 
even  then  in  a  rather  preoccupied  manner — but  when 
it  was  over  and  they  were  alone  in  the  cosy  security 
of  their  bedroom,  and  he  was  tired  and  worn  out 
with  the  strain  and  triumph  of  the  day,  he  would 
hungrily  bury  his  face  in  her  bosom  and  murmur 
endearments  and  appeals. 

At  such  moments  her  heart  would  bleed  for  him, 


SYSTOLE  157 

and  she  would  suppress  those  little  physical  aver- 
sions to  the  contact  of  his  embrace.  In  the  morning 
there  would  always  be  about  him  a  slight  tang  of 
yesterday's  whisky  and  this  morning's  tobacco;  in 
the  evening  the  aroma  of  whisky  dominated  every- 
thing. George  was  not  a  drunkard,  but  for  twenty 
years  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  steadily  imbibing, 
and  he  could  not  do  without  it.  He  seldom  drank 
anything  in  the  daytime,  but  he  would  have  a  whisky 
and  soda  before  the  show  at  night,  another  halfway 
through,  and  then  several  nightcaps  when  it  was 
over.  This  was  the  one  serious  trouble  she  had  to 
cope  with.  She  detested  the  taste  and  smell  of 
whisky.  On  one  or  two  occasions  she  protested,  but 
he  was  so  upset  by  her  reproval  that  she  decided  to 
say  no  more.  She  was  astute  enough  to  know  that 
it  was  probably  an  ingrained  habit,  and  that  if  he 
promised  to  give  it  up  he  would  most  likely  break 
his  promise. 

"I  suppose  I  must  be  thankful,"  she  thought, 
* '  that  he  never  drinks  too  much. ' ' 

She  eventually  found  a  partial  and  not  very  satis- 
factory solution  in  having  a  tiny  drop  herself  after 
the  show.  The  taste  was  not  so  bad  as  the  smell,  and 
when  she  had  had  some  she  did  not  notice  George 
so  much. 

As  time  went  on  and  her  ambitions  were  held  in 
leash,  she  became  vaguely  conscious  of  a  little  slack- 
ening of  moral  fibre.  It  was  a  life  of  ease,  and  lux- 
ury, facile  success,  constant  flattery  and  accumulat- 
ing temptations.  It  was  so  easy  and  pleasant  to  lie 
in  bed  in  the  morning  till  twelve  o'clock,  reading  a 
novel  and  smoking  cigarettes,  whilst  the  well-ordered 
household  functioned  below;  and  then  to  be  dressed 


158  HEARTBEAT 

and  coaxed  and  flattered  by  Annette ;  to  drive  down 
town  and  lunch  with  friends  at  a  club  she  had  joined 
in  St.  James '  Square ;  afterwards  to  do  a  little  shop- 
ping and  join  a  tea  party  at  Eosie  Ventnor's  flat, 
and  then  back  home  for  a  light  dinner  before  the 
theatre.  It  was  so  cosy  and  jolly  in  her  own  well- 
upholstered  dressing  room  at  the  theatre,  and  the 
other  girls  would  come  in  and  laugh  and  joke  and 
tell  "the  very  latest."  And  then  the  show,  the  con- 
sciousness of  singing  to  a  packed  house  and  knowing 
that  you  have  "got  them."  Dim,  mysterious  faces 
above  shirt  fronts,  their  eyes  glued  upon  her.  The 
applause,  the  thrill,  the  easy  intimacy  of  her  fellow 
artists,  where  kisses  meant  little  more  than  benedic- 
tions ;  and  always  the  excitement  of  new  friends,  new 
faces,  new  people,  movement  and  life.  Afterwards 
— home,  the  fire  crackling  in  the  oak-panelled  dining- 
room  ;  sandwiches,  a  siphon  and  tanalus  on  the  table. 
George,  sleepily  communicative,  still  a  little  dazed 
by  success.  The  bedroom,  another  fire  glowing,  rose 
coloured  electric  light  shades,  the  two  beds  with  the 
corners  turned  down,  her  creamy  nightdress  and 
George's  pyjamas  spread  out  invitingly.  George, 
humid  and  adoring,  asking  to  be  mothered.  An  easy, 
luxurious,  rather  demoralizing  life. 

xvni. 

"BLACK  AND  WHITE"  ran  for  a  year,  and  was  quickly 
followed  by  another  revue  called  "Fool's  Cap." 
This  new  revue  was  to  be  Barbara's  great  chance. 
Eosie  Ventnor  was  leaving,  and  she  was  to  take  her 
place.  She  arrived  at  the  first  rehearsals  in  a  state 
of  trepidation.  Julius  Banstead  was  again  in  charge. 


SYSTOLE  159 

At  first  everything  seemed  to  promise  auspicously. 
Her  songs — and  she  had  a  number — were  safe  and 
tuneful.  The  parodies  and  skits  were  roughed  out, 
and  she  had  a  principal  part  in  nearly  all  of  them. 
She  rather  fancied  herself  in  the  skits :  little  ideas, 
intonations,  inflexions,  and  gestures  occurred  to  her 
in  bed  and  whilst  walking  along  the  street.  But  as 
the  rehearsals  progressed  Mr.  Banstead  began  to 
pull  her  up,  and  drill  her  at  every  line.  Anyone  who 
has  not  experienced  it  can  have  no  idea  of  the  degree 
of  wretchedness  to  which  a  producer  can  reduce  an 
actor  or  actress  in  this  way.  At  first  she  struggled 
gamely,  and  tried  to  do  exactly  as  he  told  her.  Then 
she  protested;  but  Julius  Banstead  was  not  a  man 
you  could  argue  with.  He  reduced  her  to  tears,  and 
one  day  there  was  a  scene.  It  suddenly  flashed 
through  her  mind  that  after  all  this  was  George's 
theatre;  he  had  said  that  everything  of  his  was 
equally  hers.  Banstead  was  only  an  employe.  She 
turned  on  him  angrily : 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  do  it  my  own  way,  Mr.  Ban- 
stead.  You  don't  know  everything." 

And  Banstead  quickly  replied : 

"My  dear  girl,  it's  my  job  to  see  that  you  do  it 
right." 

"I  can't  do  it  right  if  you  keep  on  stopping  me. 
I  have  my  own  ideas  about  it,  thank  you." 

Then  the  tears  started  to  her  eyes.  Banstead 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  turned  appealingly  to 
George.  The  rest  of  the  company  shuffled  and  looked 
uncomfortable.  George  scratched  his  ear  and  said : 

"Well,  well,  don't  let's  have  any  upset." 

* '  Don 't  worry,  Fancy.    We  '11  try  again  this  after- 


160  HEARTBEAT 

She  knew  she  had  made  a  fool  of  heraelf .  All  the 
company  and  the  stage  hands  and  the  composer  and 
the  librettist  were  looking  on.  The  story  would  get 
around.  Of  course  George  couldn't  openly  take  her 
side  in  a  case  like  this ;  besides,  he  probably  agreed 
with  Banstead.  Everybody  agreed  with  Banstead; 
his  position  was  impregnable.  If  she  went  to  ex- 
tremes she  knew  she  could  force  George  to  get  rid 
of  Banstead.  And  then — suppose  the  revue  failed? 
What  kind  of  fool  would  she  look?  It  would  be  the 
talk  of  the  town.  Many  well-known  actors  damage 
their  careers  by  marrying  incompetent  wives  who  in- 
sist on  playing  leads.  Oh,  yes,  it  was  quite  true,  she 
supposed,  she  was  incompetent.  And  she  had  builded 
all  her  hopes  on  this  revue.  It  was  to  be  the  turn- 
ing point  in  her  career.  She  dashed  out  of  the  thea- 
tre and  drove  home.  In  the  sanctity  of  her  blue 
boudoir  she  had  a  good  cry. 

Two  hours  later  came  George,  looking  distressed 
and  flustered.  He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
like  a  ruffled  bear  facing  an  unknown  situation.  He 
thrust  out  his  large  hands  helplessly. 

"I  say,  Fancy,  old  darling,  I'm  awful  sorry.  I'd 
no  idea  you  'd  let  Bansf  ead  upset  you  like  that.  Don 't 
you  let  him  worry  you.  "We'll  make  it  all  right. ' ' 

Barbara  only  cried  the*  more,  and  he  snuggled 
his  face  against  her  damp  cheek  and  mumbled  con- 
solations. Getting  no  response,  he  cried  out  desper- 
ately : 

''Don't  do  it,  old  girl.  I  can't  stand  it.  We'll  get 
rid  of  the  beast." 

Then  she  got  her  voice  at  last. 

"No,  no,  no,  it's  not  that.  You  don't  understand. 
You  can't  get  rid  of  him.  It's  because  I  know  he 


SYSTOLE  161 

was  right  that  I'm  making  a  fool  of  myself.  I 
thought  I  could  act,  and  I  can't.  It's  all  right, 
George  dear,  don't  worry;  I'll  be  all  right  soon." 

"Sensible  little  darling,"  thought  George.  Out 
loud  he  said: 

"Of  course  you  can  act.  What  nonsense!  There 
are  only  one  or  two  points,  Banstead  thinks,  and  so 
does  Paisley  and— some  of  the  others— one  or  two 
points  could  be  improved.  It's  difficult  for  me.  I 
— don't  know  what  to  do  about  it." 

"I  know  what  to  do.  I'll  try  once  more,  and  if 
it's  no  good  you  must  get  Rosie  Ventnor  back." 

Well,  was  there  ever  such  a  reasonable,  sensible 
little  angel?  Was  there  ever  a  child  so  fascinating 
in  its  wrath?  He  hugged  her  tight  and  buried  his 
face  in  her  hair. 

"Fancy,  you  know  I  love  you,  darling?  I'll  do 
anything — anything  you  ask  me. ' ' 

Was  there  ever  a  large  man  so  gentle  and  so  plia- 
ble? He  coaxed  her  into  a  good  humour  and  in 
half-an-hour's  time  she  was  laughing. 

She  attended  the  rehearsal  the  next  day  and  tried 
again;  but  the  rehearsal  had  not  been  in  progress 
long  before  she  realised  that  the  great  Banstead  had 
altered  his  tactics.  He  was  going  through  a  process 
of  freezing  her  out.  He  did  not  pull  her  up  once; 
he  just  left  her  alone.  He  checked  the  others,  but 
she  was  ignored.  She  went  through  the  part  like 
an  unattached  automaton;  she  had  no  criterion  of  its 
worth.  Nevertheless,  as  time  went  on  she  began  to 
be  conscious  of  the  telepathic  waves  of  failure.  In 
scenes  that  were  meant  to  be  comic  no  response 
came  back  from  her  fellow  artistes — not  even 
George.  In  being  frozen  out  she  was  freezing  the 


162  HEARTBEAT 

others  out.  The  thing  went  flat ;  George  looked  be- 
wildered, the  others  uncomfortable;  and  Banstead 
chillingly  indifferent. 

At  the  end  of  the  rehearsal  she  bit  her  lip  and 
walked  up  to  Banstead  and  George,  who  were  talk- 
ing together.  She  thrust  out  the  typescript  of  her 
part  and  said: 

"I  can't  do  this  part;  I've  no  sense  of  humour. 
You  must  get  someone  else." 

Banstead  almost  snatched  the  part,  but  he  looked 
a  little  contrite  and  surprised.  George  stared  at  her 
pleadingly.  What  was  he  to  do?  The  masterful 
Banstead  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  took  her  arm. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Champneys,  I'm  afraid  I've  been 
rude  to  you.  Please  understand  there  was  nothing 
personal  meant,  anyway.  We  shouldn't  get  any- 
where if  we  weren't  candid  in  this  profession.  Quite 
honestly,  I  think  you're  wise.  The  part  wants  a 
more  experienced  comedienne.  But  look  here,  my 
dear,  we  '11  fix  you  up  with  a  good  singing  part.  You 
shall  have  a  good  show,  I  promise  you. ' ' 

Two  days  later  Rosie  Ventnor  was  back,  rehears- 
ing the  lead.  Barbara  continued  to  sing  coon  songs 
and  lullabies  and  to  join  in  the  choruses.  She  for- 
gave her  judges,  but  the  incident  affected  her  detri- 
mentally. It  was  the  first  complete  disillusionment 
she  had  experienced.  The  rich  banquet  was  prepared 
for  her  and  she  could  not  eat  it.  Never,  never,  never 
would  she  be  a  great  star.  She  had  talent  but  not 
genius ;  she  lacked  just  that  elusive  something  which 
spells  it.  She  sang  charmingly — indeed,  almost  too 
charmingly  and  subtly  for  a  production  like  "Fool's 
Cap";  at  the  same  time  she  had  not  the  range  of 
voice  nor  the  musical  intelligence  requisite  for  grand 
opera.  She  fell  between  the  two  stools.  She  real- 


SYSTOLE  163 

ised  all  this  very  quickly,  and  with  an  alert,  protec- 
tive instinct  she  decided  how  to  act.  She  must  keep 
her  grip  on  George.  As  Fancy  Telling  she  was  of 
no  account;  as  Mrs.  George  Champneys  she  was  a 
person  to  look  up  to  and  respect.  It  was  she  who 
persuaded  him  to  wire  for  Rosie  Ventnor;  it  was  she 
who  took  the  rebuff  philosophically.  George  was  so 
upset  at  the  time  he  seemed  inclined  to  lose  his  head. 
Oh,  yes,  she  was  a  wise,  sensible,  philosophical  little 
thing. 

But  when  the  reaction  came  it  found  her  drifting 
down  the  old  channels  of  easy  living.  If  the  Muses 
would  not  reward  her  with  bay  leaves  she  would 
seek  satisfaction  elsewhere — in  the  vineyards  of 
Bacchus,  for  instance,  or  in  the  groves  of  Arcadia, 
listening  to  the  pipes  of  Pan.  In  the  months  that 
followed  she  ministered  to  the  wants  of  George.  She 
was  affectionate  and  tender,  but  their  lives  began  to 
be  lived  apart.  She  discovered  new  aspects  of  him. 
His  preoccupations  were  overwhelming,  his  conser- 
vatism impregnable.  It  was  like  being  married  to 
'  a  confirmed  bachelor.  His  adoration  had  certain  de- 
fined limits.  He  wanted  her  hungrily  at  special  mo- 
ments, but  for  his  work-a-day  life  he  preferred  the 
society  of  men.  In  spite  of  his  sentimental  protesta- 
tions, he  was  never  able  to  conceal  a  kind  of  indo- 
lent contempt  for  her  mentality.  He  lived  in  a 
groove,  a  large,  cultivated,  well-ordered  groove.  The 
fact  that  she  had  been  admitted  into  it  didn't  make 
it  any  less  a  groove.  He  had  passed  the  age  when 
he  could  convert  it  into  a  sunlit  meadow.  In  their 
association  the  comedian  appeared  a  pathetic,  al- 
onost  a  tragic  figure,  always  appealing  to  her  for  the 
crumbs  of  passion  she  never  felt  disposed  to  give. 


164  HEARTBEAT 

And  so  they  gradually  began  to  live  their  own 
lives.  Frequently  they  would  not  meet  all  day. 
George  would  be  working,  rehearsing,  lunching  at 
his  club,  talking  to  the  innumerable  ' '  old  boys ' '  who 
pass  their  lives  round  about  Covent  Garden  and  Gar- 
rick  Street.  And  Barbara  built  up  her  circle  of 
friends,  too,  mostly  women,  but  she  was  not  above 
mixing  with  the  other  sex  also,  and  even  lunching 
or  teaing  alone  with  one  of  the  young  "boys"  so 
frequently  referred  to  by  Isabel.  George  gave  her 
a  small  car  of  her  own,  and  she  flitted  hither  and 
thither,  buying  expensive  frocks  and  fal-lals,  dining 
at  expensive  restaurants  and  drinking  expensive 
wines.  And  by  these  means  she  fortified  herself 
against  his  caresses  and  endearments.  He  begrudged 
her  nothing.  He  demanded  nothing  more  from  her 
— only  that  she  should  not  pity  him.  He  even  con- 
sented eventually  to  separate  bedrooms. 

XTX. 

THE  whispers  of  Eros  were  always  about  her  ears, 
neither  could  she  be  unmindful  of  Isabel's  prophetic 
warning : 

"If  you've  ever  been  kissed  properly  it  gets  into 
your  blood,  and  you  can't  do  without  it." 

Within  three  months  after  the  production  of 
"Fool's  Cap"  she  had  been  kissed  twice  "prop- 
ertly, ' '  and  though  in  neither  case  were  the  wells  of 
her  inner  being  profoundly  stirred,  the  experience 
left  upon  her  the  imprint  of  a  bitter-sweet  exultation. 

The  first  occasion  was  with  the  great  Julius  Ban- 
stead  himself.  In  the  same  way  that  George  sud- 
denly discovered  her  after  knowing  her  for  years, 
she  became  to  Julius  an  identical  obsession.  He  ob- 


SYSTOLE  165 

served  her  one  day  in  the  wings,  and  in  the  depths 
of  those  masterful,  restless  eyes  there  flashed  an  in- 
solent, savage  desire.  She  was  aware  of  him  ever 
after  that,  following  her  with  his  eyes,  prowling  in 
her  wake.  She  had  no  great  love  for  Julius  Ban- 
stead.  She  feared  and  almost  hated  him.  And  yet 
her  heart  beat  flurriedly  to  know  that  the  strong 
man  desired  her.  It  was  insolent  and  characteris- 
tic of  him  to  make  love  to  the  wife  of  his  employer, 
to  the  wife  of  his  great  friend,  to  a  girl  he  had 
been  rude  to.  He  spoke  to  her  very  little,  but  when 
near  her  he  hummed  under  his  breath  phrases  of  im- 
passioned song.  He  mesmerized  her  with  his  fierce 
assumption  of  indiscretion.  In  spite  of  her  dislike 
she  succumbed  to  the  luxuriant  image  of  his  mastery. 
She  would  like  this  man  to  hurt  her,  to  throw  her 
on  the  floor  and  kick  her. 

She  thrust  the  strange  temptation  back.  She  dis- 
missed it  altogether  when  he  was  not  present,  but 
when  he  came  near  her  she  was  disturbingly  con- 
scious of  him  without  looking  at  him. 

Arriving  at  the  theatre  early  one  evening  she  met 
him  going  in.  He  said : 

' '  Come  up  to  my  room  for  a  moment.  I  want  to 
show  you  something  which  may  interest  you." 

She  was  fully  conscious  of  the  insolence  of  the 
command  and  the  something  which  might  interest 
her  being  a  blind.  The  penetration  of  his  glance 
had  only  one  meaning  which  should  have  lashed  her 
to  a  fury  of  revolt ;  and  yet  without  a  word  she  fol- 
lowed him  to  a  room  upstairs  where  the  offices  were 
situated.  He  walked  ahead,  and  her  eyes  were 
glued  upon  the  movement  of  that  thick  forceful  back. 
She  entered  the  room  after  him,  and  he  shut  the 


166  HEARTBEAT 

door  and  threw  his  hat  on  to  a  peg.  She  stood  per- 
fectly immobile  in  front  of  a  gas  stove,  which  was 
popping  irritably.  Without  a  word  he  came  up  and 
took  her  in  his  arms.  She  knew  all  this  was  going  to 
happen  before  it  did;  her  volitions  were  experi- 
menting. She  found  herself  enveloped  in  a  fury  of 
desires.  She  felt  the  thrust  of  his  vibrant  body  as 
he  crushed  her  to  him,  the  lips  upon  her  cheek  and 
eyes ;  then  suddenly  his  tongue  between  her  lips.  It 
was  awful.  She  should  have  screamed  and  kicked, 
and  not  hung  idly  there,  with  closed  eyes  and  a  sur- 
rendered will.  Instead  of  that,  for  some  timeless 
period  she  was  lost  in  a  world  of  passionate  re- 
sponse. When  she  escaped  from  that  raging  eternity 
she  should  have  struck  him  and  fled  from  the  room. 
Instead  of  that  she  said  in  a  drugged  voice : 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Julius." 

Banstead  was  not  the  man  to  fritter  away  an  op- 
portunity. He  had  succeeded  already  far  beyond  his 
wildest  hopes.  His  voice  came  huskily  and  plead- 
ingly: 

" Darling,  will  you? — will  you?" 

"Will  I  what!" 

"It's  you  that's  being  a  fool  now.  You  know — you 
know.  0  Fancy  darling,  I  love  you.  I  want  you. 
Will  you?" 

Oh,  no,  Mr.  Banstead,  the  game  can  be  carried  too 
far.  She  pushed  him  away,  rearranged  her  hair  and, 
looking  down  at  the  stove,  remarked : 

"Your  gas  stove  wants  regulating." 

"Damn  the  gas  stove !" 

She  raised  her  voice  to  a  note  of  passion  for  the 
first  time : 

"I  hate  that  popping  noise.  It  gets  on  my 
nerves!" 


SYSTOLE  167 

With  a  growl  Julius  bent  down  to  readjust  the 
screw.  Like  a  flash  she  was  at  the  door  and  through 
it.  She  never  went  into  Julius  Banstead's  room 
again ;  neither  did  she  ever  report  her  experience  to 
George  or  to  any  of  her  girl  friends.  When  people 
afterwards  asked  her  what  she  thought  of  him  she 
said: 

' '  Julius  ?    Oh,  he 's  a  queer  fish. ' ' 
Sometimes  at  night  she  would  lie  with  head  on 
pillow,  her  body  curled  up  like  a  little  ball,  and 
reflect : 

"Crikey!  George  never  kissed  me  like  that!" 
The  second  occasion  was  an  aristocratic  diver- 
sion. It  occurred  with  the  son  of  a  lord.  Geoffrey 
Vallance  was  the  son  of  Lord  Tremayne.  He  was 
a  slim,  elegant  boy,  just  down  from  Oxford,  with 
round  Plantagenet  eyes  and  an  expression  which 
clearly  betokened:  "For  goodness'  sake,  don't  say 
anything  serious!" 

She  met  him  at  a  luncheon-party  at  Rosie  Vent- 
nor's,  and  he  informed  her  within  the  space  of  the 
first  five  minutes  that  he  had  been  to  "Fool's  Cap" 
twenty-three  times,  that  he  thought  she  was  devil- 
ish clever  and  pretty,  that  he  thought  the  whole 
show  was  top-hole,  that  George  was  a  scream,  that 
Rosie  was  topping,  that  all  the  girls  in  it  were  sim- 
ply ripping,  that  his  father  wanted  him  to  read  for 
the  Bar — not  much!  The  only  bar  he  aspired  to 
was  the  Trocadero !  Ha,  ha,  ha !  He  told  her  that  he 
liked  all  shell-fish  except  mussels,  and  that  he  never 
drank  port  after  champagne.  He  played  games, 
but  they  bored  him.  He  only  did  it  to  keep  fit.  He 
liked  squash  rackets  best,  because  it  was  so  concen- 
trated. "You  sweat  like  a  pig  in  five  minutes." 


168  HEARTBEAT 

The  elegance  of  his  outward]  and  visible  form 
was  not  enriched  by  any  particular  spark  of  inner 
and  spiritual  grace,  and  yet  there  was  about  him 
something  rather  charming.  Perhaps;  because  he 
was  so  young  and  fresh,  so  redolent  of  a  world 
novel  to  her,  so  different  from  even  High  Barren. 
She  longed  to  tell  him  that  her  father  was  the  great 
Thomas  Powerscourt,  the  Chancellor,  just  to  see 
what  the  effect  would  be  upon  him.  But  she  wisely 
forbore  and  exchanged  inanities  instead.  When  he 
offered  to  drive  her  down  to  Pangbourne  in  his  side- 
car on  the  following  Sunday  she  accepted.  They 
lunched  at  an  hotel,  and  afterwards  went  on  the 
river.  He  behaved  quite  nicely,  and  delivered  her 
safely  to  her  door  at  Kensington  in  time  for  dinner. 

Afterwards  they  met  quite  frequently,  and  flirted 
in  a  childish,  playful  manner.  Sometimes  she  re- 
flected: "It  must  be  rather  nice  to  be  married  to 
someone  young  and  fresh  like  that.  He  thinks  he's 
a  gay  dog,  but  he  really  knows  nothing." 

The  kiss  was  the  direct  result  of  drinking  too 
much  wine.  They  had  lunched  together  alone  at 
the  house;  George  was  up  west,  as  usual.  Some 
rather  heavy  Burgundy  had  been  served,  and  Bar- 
bara realised  that  it  had  suddenly  gone  to  her  head. 
The  interplay  of  fustian  emotions  became  acceler- 
ated. His  face  appeared  lighted  up  with  an  added 
glow.  He  was  really  rather  good-looking;  he  was 
really  rather  a  dear.  She  could  see  the  line  of  firm 
white  little  teeth  between  his  red  lips  as  he  laughed. 
His  face  had  the  milky  pinkness  of  a  baby's ;  all  eag- 
erness and  expectancy.  Upon  his  upper  lip  was  a 
thin  down  of  golden  hair.  Abruptly  she  thought : 

"I'm  going  to  kiss  this  boy." 


SYSTOLE  169 

A  laggard  reflection  tempered  her  resolution. 
"It  can't  make  the  slightest  difference  to  George." 

She  stood  up  and  said: 

"Come  and  see  my  powder-blue  room." 

The  consciousness  of  bespoken  guilt  merely  quick- 
ened her  impulse.  What  did  it  matter?  Even  the 
form  of  that  mistress  of  discretion,  Annette,  van- 
ishing down  dim  corridors,  did  nothing  to  distract 
her  movements.  Again  she  stood  immobile  before 
a  fire,  which  in  this  case  was  not  lighted,  for  the 
day  was  hot.  He  approached  her  from  behind. 
"Let  him  kiss  me;  what  does  it  matter?  One  can 
kiss  better  standing  up." 

He  was  more  deliberate  in  his  methods  than  Julius 
had  been.  He  took  her  hand  and  pressed  it  gently. 
Then  he  doubled  it  up  in  his  and  kissed  it.  After 
pausing,  as  though  expecting  a  rebuff,  he  put  his 
arm  around  her  waist.  The  pressure  increased ;  he 
moved  nearer  and  kissed  the  back  of  her  neck,  her 
ear,  her  cheek.  Then  she  slowly  turned  and  held 
him  from  her,  looking  deeply  into  his  eyes.  With 
a  sudden  firm  movement  she  raised  her  arm  and, 
placing  it  round  his  neck,  she  drew  his  lips  to  hers. 
They  kissed  properly,  with  the  blood-inflamed,  wine- 
inflamed,  Aphrodisiac  intensity  which  only  youth 
experiences  when  it  first  breaks  through  the  barrier 
of  physical  reserve.  When  it  was  over  she  could 
just  see  his  flushed,  almost  bewildered  face.  He 
was  trembling.  She  hid  her  eyes  with  a  handker- 
chief, and  said: 

"Damn  that  Burgundy!   It's  gone  to  my  head." 
He  laughed  self-consciously,  and  tried  to  approach 
her  again,  but  she  warded  him  off: 
"Don't  be  a  fool,  Geoffrey." 


170  HEARTBEAT 

It  was  obvious  that  the  boy  was  in  a  dilemma. 
The  thing  seemed  so  confoundedly  serious,  don't 
you  know.  He  had  probably  never  been  kissed  so 
seriously  before,  and  the  inexperience  almost  <un- 
nerved  him.  He  desired  amusement,  but  he  didn't 
want  to  be  a  cad,  and  all  that  kind  of  thing,  old 
girl.  She  could  see  him  thinking  that.  Yes,  he  was 
rather  a  dear,  and  she  had  made  him  kiss  her.  He 
again  laughed  nervously,  in  the  manner  of  a  man 
who  has  committed  an  awful  crime. 

"You  must  go  now,  Geoff,"  she  said. 

He  was  contrition  itself,  but  devoured  by  dis- 
appointment. Thank  God  he  said  nothing  about 
loving  her;  neither  did  he  make  overt  suggestions. 
There  was  something  of  the  gentleman  about  him  in 
spite  of  his  devotion  to  inanities.  There  was  some- 
thing of  the  gentleman  about  him  when  he  kissed 
her  hand  at  the  door,  with  a  gesture  which  implied : 

"Please  don't  think  I  have  any  disrespect  for 
you  on  account  of  this.  I  assure  you,  it  was  all  my 
fault,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  don't  you  know." 

She  met  Geoffrey  Vallance  on  many  future  oc- 
casions after  that,  but  never  alone.  The  kiss  was 
not  repeated.  After  these  two  experiences  she  with- 
drew a  little  within  herself,  like  a  cat  licking  its 
wounds  after  battle,  conscious  thatl  the  wounds 
hurt,  but  fully  alive  to  the  fact  that  they  are  not  in- 
curable. 

XX. 

BABBAJU.  had  been  married  nearly  three  years. 
"Fool's  Cap"  had  been  replaced  by  a  new  revue 
called  "Laugh  and  Grow  Fat'V-in  which  she  still 
sustained  an  inconspicuous  part— when  a  disrup- 


SYSTOLE  171 

tion  came  to  disturb  the  equanimity  of  the  well- 
ordered  house  in  Kensington.  The  affair  concerned 
the  competent  Mrs.  Piddinghoe. 

In  the  luxury  of  being  free  from  domestic  worries 
Barbara  had  devoted  herself  to  a  life  of  comfort- 
able ease  and  a  ladylike  disregard  of  the  claims  of 
household  duties.  But  as  time  went  on,  and  the 
theatre  demanded  less  attention,  she  began  to  think 
more  about  her  home.  She  began  to  take  more  in- 
terest in  the  details  of  its  working.  One  afternoon 
she  happened  to  be  in  one  of  the  spare  bedrooms  at 
the  back,  which  overlooked  the  passage  leading  to 
the  tradesmen's  entrance,  and,  looking  out,  she  saw 
a  boy  standing  at  the  back  door  with  a  large  basket. 
She  naturally  imagined  that  he  was  delivering  some 
goods.  In  an  idle  mood  she  watched  him.  Mrs. 
Piddinghoe  appeared,  and  they  whispered  together. 
She  retired,  and  in  a  few  moments  returned  with  a 
lot  of  parcels  under  her  arm.  They  were  wrapped 
up  in  newspapers,  but  sticking  out  of  one  she  could 
distinctly  see  the  frill  of  a  ham. 

''That's  very  queer,"  she  thought.  "I  suppose 
Mrs.  Piddinghoe  is  sending  some  things  back." 

And  then  suspicion  began  to  work.  She  had  never 
liked  Mrs.  Piddinghoe.  She  was  altogether  too 
plausible,  too  perfect,  and  too  efficient. 

For  a  moment  an  impulse  came  to  the  mistress 
of  the  house  to  go  down  and  make  direct  enquiries 
as  to  the  reason  why  this  young  man  was  taking 
these  things  away,  and  then  a  sense  of  caution  pre- 
vailed. She  would  be  further  on  the  watch.  A  few 
days  later  she  observed  the  same  operation.  She 
waited  then  till  the  following  Saturday  morning, 
when  Mr.  Toller,  the  secretary,  was  in  the  habit  of 


172  HEARTBEAT 

making  the  weekly  settlement  with  Mrs.  Pidding- 
hoe.  When  this  was  completed  she  went  in  to  him 
and  said: 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Toller,  would  you  mind  telling 
me  what  our  household  expenses  came  to  last  week? 
I  should  be  interested  to  know." 

Samuel  Toller  looked  very  surprised,  but  he 
smiled  pleasantly  and  said: 

"Certainly,  Mrs.  Champneys."  He  undid  an 
attache-case  and  took  out  some  papers.  "Here  we 
are.  Fourteen  pounds  seven  and  threepence." 

"What!" 

"That's  the  amount,  Mrs.  Champneys.  I  have 
the  details  here." 

Barbara;  glanced  at  the  figures  and  the  items. 
Then  she  remarked  quietly: 

"I  was  home  to  lunch  twice  last  week  and  George 
once.  I  dined  here  three  times,  and  I  think  George 
did  three  times.  On  Thursday  we  had  four  people  to 
lunch;  there's  been  no  more  entertaining.  There  are 
four  servants.  Doesn't  it  strike  you  as  being 
rather  a  lot?" 

Toller  blushed.  He  had  often  thought  so  him- 
self, but  it  was  not  his  business  to  enquire.  He  was 
a  busy  man,  and  the  business  of  of  the  theatre  oc- 
cupied most  of  his  time.  He  said: 

"Is  that  so?  I  didn't  know.  I  thought  you  enter- 
tained a  lot.  Mrs.  Piddinghoe  said  you  did." 

"Can  you  tell  me— is  Mrs.  Piddinghoe  married?" 

"Yes.  She  has  a  husband  and  a  grown-up  son. 
I  think  they  keep  a  little  shop  somewhere."  Then 
he  added  lamely:  "She's  very  fond  of  George — I 
mean  Mr.  Champneys.  She's  been  with  him  ten 
years." 


SYSTOLE  173 

1  'I  see.  Thank  you  very  much.  Do  you  mind  leav- 
ing the  details  with  me  ? " 

"Certainly,  Mrs.  Champneys." 

That  same  afternoon  the  young  man  again  ap- 
peared at  the  back  door.  Barbara  walked  deliber- 
ately down.  Mrs.  Piddinghoe  was  handing  him  a 
box  full  of  eggs. 

"What  is  this,  Mrs.  Piddinghoe?"    she    asked. 

The  efficient  housekeeper  looked  flustered. 

"Oh,"  she  remarked  perfunctorily,  "we're  send- 
ing some  eggs  back.  They're  not  good  ones." 

Barbara  opened  the  box. 

"They  look  excellent  ones  to  me.  And  are  you 
sending  back  a  shoulder  of  mutton  to  the  same  per- 
son? I  thought  one  got  mutton  at  a  butcher's  and 
eggs  at  a  grocer's. 

Mrs.  Piddinghoe  became  dark  with  menace. 

"If  you  please,  Mrs.  Champneys,  I'm  not  in  the 
'abit  of  being  cross-examined.  I've  done  for  Mr. 
Champneys  for  ten  years,  and  there  has  never  been 
no  complaint." 

"I'm  not  complaining — yet.  This  is  your  son, 
isn't  it?" 

"He  does  errands  for  me." 

"All  right,  only  I  should  put  those  things  back 
in  the  larder  if  I  were  you." 

The  following  morning— a  Sunday— after  her 
bath,  she  went  into  George's  room.  He  was  sitting 
up  in  bed,  with  a  dishevelled  breakfast  tray  by  his 
side,  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth,  and  a  copy  of  the 
Referee  in  hand.  She  sat  on  the  edge  of  his  bed  and 
said: 

"George,  I  want  to  speak  seriously  to  you." 


174  HEARTBEAT 

He  put  down  the  paper  and  blinked  at  her  ques- 
tioningly. 

"Seriously!  So  early  in  the  morning?  Come 
and  give  me  a  kiss  first.  You  look  a  little  darling 
just  out  of  the  bath  and  your  hair  all  wet ' 

She  allowed  a  reasonable  amount  of  "  mauling 
about,"  then  she  said  abruptly: 

' '  George,  do  you  think  we  ate  five  and  a-half  dozen 
eggs  and  seven  pounds  of  butter  this  week?" 

"Five  and  a-half  dozen  eggs  and  seven  pounds  of 
butter?  Who?  You  and  I?" 

"No.   I  mean  in  this  house?" 

"In  the  house?  0  Lord!  I  don't  know.  There 
are  a  good  many  of  us.  Is  it  a  lot?  Why?" 

'  *  Do  you  remember  having  a  duck  and  two  fowls  ? ' ' 

"My  dear,  what  are  you  talking  about?  I  can't 
remember  what  I  ate  last  week." 

"Do  you  remember  having  chicken  at  home  at 
all?" 

"I  can't  say  I  do.    What  are  you  getting  at?" 

"I'm  getting  at  the  fact  that  the  Piddinghoe  is 
an  old  thief  and  a  swindler." 

George's  eyes  opened  wide,  and  an  expression  of 
troubled  dread  crept  into  them.  He  seemed  to  de- 
tect in  his  Fancy's  attitude  an  outflanking  attack 
upon  his  comfort  and  repose.  If  there  was  one  thing 
he  hated  it  was  any  kind  of  domestic  upheaval.  He 
laughed  nervously  and  fell  back  on  the  same  line  of 
defence  as  that  used  by  Samuel  Toller. 

"Piddinghoe!  Nonsense,  my  dear.  She's  been 
with  me  ten  years. '  * 

"Yes,  and  I  suspect  that  for  ten  years  she  has 
been  systematically  robbing  you.  She  has  a  hus- 
band who  runs  a  little  shop,  and  a  grown-up  son. 


SYSTOLE  175 

The  son  calls  here  nearly  every  afternoon  and  car- 
ries off  the  loot  for  his  father  to  sell.  I  should 
think  between  them  they  steal  four  or  five  pounds' 
worth  of  stuff  a  week.  I  can  prove  they've  stolen 
a  lot  this  week." 

Now,  George  ought  to  have  been  very  grateful 
to  his  Fancy  for  this  information ;  he  ought  to  have 
recognised  that  she  was  rendering  him  a  great  ser- 
vice ;  but  curiously  enough  he  was  not  at  all  grate- 
ful. He  was  distressed;  he  wished  profoundly  she 
hadn't  done  it.  His  voice  was  almost  angry  as  he 
replied : 

"Oh,  no,  I  don't  believe  it.  You've  made  a  mis- 
take." 

There  are  some  people  whose  nerves  are  always 
jagged  early  in  the  morning.  Barbara's  had  not 
always  been,  but  she  was  reaching  that  stage  of 
development  when  they  usually  were.  From  her 
dressing-gown  pocket  she/  produced  a  bundle  of 
tradesmen's  bills.  She  struck  them  with  her  fist 
and  her  eyes  blazed. 

"If  you  like  to  come  down  with  me  to  the  kitchen 
and  the  larder,  I  can  prove  it.  We've  paid  for  all 
kinds  of  things  which  we've  never  had.  Look  here 
— three  tins  of  tongue.  We  never  have  tinned  ton- 
gue, and  there's  none  in  the  house — 

George  became  peevish.  He  picked  up  the  Ref- 
eree. 

"My  dear,  I  really  don't  desire  to  go  down  to  the 
larder  and  hunt  for  tins  of  tongue.  It's  Mrs.  Pid- 
dinghoe's  business " 

Then  Barbara  became  really  angry. 

"You— men!  It's  the  kind  of  thing  you  do.  You 
go  on  encouraging  people  to  be  immoral — anything 


176  HEARTBEAT 

rather  than  disturb  your  comfort  and,  peace  of 
mind » 

"Well  I— after  all " 

"If  you  won't  do  anything  about  it,  I  will.  I 
won't  have  a  thief  in  the  place." 

"Barbara,  don't— don't— be  in  a  hurry.  Let's 
think " 

Barbara  was  already  at  the  door.  George  got  out 
of  bed  and  tumbled  after  her.  He  stood  at  the  open 
door,  frightened  and  helpless.  In  a  few  minutes' 
time  he  heard  such  a  hullabaloo  going  on  down- 
stairs as  had  never  before  shattered  the  placid  ser- 
enity of  that  well-ordered  house.  Two  women's 
voices  raised  in  shrill  altercation,  shouting  each 
other  down,  and  in  each  there  was  that  note  of  com- 
monness which  invariably  colours  a  primitive  emo- 
tion breaking  loose.  The  din  went  on  for  nearly 
twenty  minutes. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  Barbara  returned,  still 
ablaze  with  fury,  still  unapproachable,  but  just  a 
shade  triumphant. 

"She's  going,"  she  said  icily,  and  passed  through 
to  her  own  room  and  shut  the  door. 

George  groaned.  This  was  a  nice  thing  to  hap- 
pen! The  Piddinghoe!  The  loyal  and  efficient  Pid- 
dinghoe,  who  had  served  him  all  these  years.  What 
the  devil  did  Fancy  want  to  butt  in  for?  He  knew 
— or  in  any  case  he  had  often  shrewdly  suspected 
that  Mrs.  Piddinghoe  took  a  few  things.  But  what 
did  it  matter?  It  was  the  recognised  perquisite  of 
her  class.  While  the  theatre  was  making  a  clear 
profit  of  five  or  six  hundred  pounds  a  week,  and  all 
his  interests  and  energies  were  wrapped  up  in  it, 
what  did  it  matter  if  Mrs.  Piddinghoe  did  take  a 


SYSTOLE  177 

few  eggs  or  a  tin  of  tongue,  so  long  as  she  did  her 
work  efficiently  and  freed  him  from  domestic  worry? 
Women  were  impossible.  He  would  like  to  explain 
to  Fancy  that  one  had  to  look  at  these  things  in  a 
broad  way.  His  experience  told  him  that  all  the 
best  and  most  competent  servants  were  either 
thieves  or  drunkards.  You  allowed  a  margin  for 
it.  And  what  was  going  to  happen  now? 

Barbara  was  unapproachable.  She  was  aggrieved 
with  him,  even  more  with  him  than  with  Mrs.  Pid- 
dinghoe,  because  he  had  not  sided  with  her.  And 
they  had  quarrelled — yes,  there  was  no  getting 
away  from  that,  they  had  quarrelled  for  the  first 
time  in  their  married  life.  Well,  she  was  wrong; 
no  doubt  about  it.  She  had  no  right  to  act  like  that 
without  his  consent.  After  all,  it  was  his  house,  his 
money.  Something  began  to  harden  in  George.  He 
would  have  to  teach  her  a  lesson.  She  was  very 
silent  in  the  next  room  now,  probably  crying — wo- 
men were  like  that — their  anger  always  had  its  re- 
action in  tears.  On  such  occasions  it  is  better  to 
keep  out  of  the  way.  He  lay  back  in  the  bed,  con- 
scious of  his  power.  Babrara  had  not  treated  him 
as  she  ought.  Did  she  realise  her  dependence  on 
him?  Did  she  realise  that  she  was  an  unrecognised, 
penniless  actress,  an  illegitimate  child,  and  he  had 
made  her  the  wife  of  the  great  George  Champneys? 
Perhaps  it  was  a  little  unkind  to  look  at  it  like  that ; 
he  detested  cruelty  as  much  as  a  scene  or  a  row. 
They  would  make  it  up  later  on  of  course,  but— in 
any  case  she  must  come  to  him,  not  he  to  her.  He 
got  out  of  bed  and  went  into  the  bathroom.  Having 
washed  and  dressed,  he  went  downstairs  and 
'phoned  for  his  car.  He  drove  up  to  his  club,  and 
did  not  see  Barbara  again  that  day. 


178  HEARTBEAT 

XXI. 

THE  row  about  Mrs  Piddinghoe  had  consequences 
more  far-reaching  than  either  of  them  could  have 
anticipated.  She  was  something  of  a  female  Sam- 
son, and  realising  that  the  temple  was  to  fall  upon 
her  own  head,  she  did  everything  to  embroil  others 
in  the  crash.  She  did  not  leave  till  late  on  that 
Sunday  afternoon,  and  then  she  took  the  cook  with 
her,  and  an  enormous  quantity  of  mysterious  lug- 
gage. Before  she  left  she  threatened  legal  proceed- 
ings, and  called  Barbara  a  string  of  names  unflat- 
tering to  her  moral  character  and  the  integrity  of 
her  parental  stock.  The  other  servants  were  all 
out,  except  the  boy  who  cleaned  knives  and  boots. 
After  she  had  gone,  Barbara  discovered  that  the 
basement  was  in  a  complete  state  of  chaos.  Things 
were  scattered  all  over  the  floor;  doors  of  cup- 
boards and  larders  were  locked  and  the  keys  miss- 
ing; gas  was  escaping  from  the  kitchen  range;  water 
dripped  from  some  mysterious  tank  in  the  passage. 
It  was  Sunday  night,  and  the  chances  of  getting  a 
plumber  or  a  gas-fitter  were  remote.  Fortunately 
Snowden,  the  boot-boy,  proved  a  host  in  himself.  It 
was  he  who  detected  what  was  wrong  with  the  stove. 
Between  them  they  strove  to  rectify  the  results  of 
the  disruption. 

She  had  a  feeling  George  would  not  come  back 
till  late,  and  she  did  not  care.  Over  this  business 
George  had  shown  his  worst  side.  He  had  behaved 
like  a  spoilt  baby.  He  had  been  weak  and  unreason- 
able. He  ought  to  have  been  grateful  to  her  for 
discovering  the  robbery;  instead  of  that  he  had 
practically  told  her  to  mind  her  own  business.  After 


SYSTOLE  179 

all,  wasn't  the  house  hers  as  much  as  his?   Hadn't 
he  often  said  so? 

They  had  quarrelled;  no  escaping  that  fact — 
yes,  quarrelled  for  the  first  time.  Well,  he  was  in 
the  wrong,  no  doubt  about  it.  He  was  too  big  and 
important  to  worry  about  tins  of  tongue  and  pounds 
of  butter.  He  feared  a  scene  or  any  unpleasantness, 
and  so — he  ran  away !  Men  were  like  that.  If  every- 
thing wasn't  just  right  for  them,  they  didn't  try 
and  put  it  right — they  ran  away  and  hid.  If  George 
bought  a  thing,  and  when  he  got  home  he  found  it 
defective,  he  just  grumbled,  and  then  went  and 
bought  another.  Catch  him  taking  it  back  to  the 
shop !  Pampered  fools !  She  was  a  little  unstrung, 
but  the  occupation  of  putting  her  house  in  order 
steadied  her.  Her  crust  hardened.  George  had 
treated  her  badly.  Did  he  realise  that  she  had  given 
him  her  youth?  Did  he  not  know  that  he  was  a 
puffy,  elderly  man?  Perhaps  that  was  unkind — he 
loved  her  well  enough  in  his  way — but  he  must  be 
taught  some  sort  of  lesson.  Of  course  they  would 
make  it  up,  but — in  any  case,  he  must  come  to  her, 
not  she  to  him.  She  wasn't  going  to  dino  alone  in 
an  empty  house,  and  cook  her  own  dinner,  so  she 
telephoned  to  Isabel,  and  happened  to  catch  her. 
The  two  girls  went  down  to  Romano's  and  dined 
extravagantly;  and  over  the  wine-glasses  Barbara's 
eyes  sparkled  with  malicious  satisfaction  realising 
that  it  was  George's  money  she  was  spending. 

The  reconciliation  was  more  difficult  of  accom- 
plishment than  might  have  been  imagined.  Indeed, 
it  may  be  said  that  after  the  affair  of  Mrs.  Pidding- 
hoe  they  never  quite  got  back  on  to  the  old  footing. 
Two  obstinate  wills  came  into  conflict:  the  man's 


180  HEARTBEAT 

defensive,  cautions,  and  secure  in  its  ultimate  tri- 
umph; the  woman's  offensive,  a  little  reckless,  re- 
lentlessly logical  and  yet  eternally  conscious  of  ex- 
posed dangers.  It  seems  strange  how  in  this  world 
of  ours  the  test  of  our  moral  dissonances  may  be  so 
often  tried  over  matters  which  concern  petty  things 
like  tins  of  tongue  and  pounds  of  butter.  At  the  in- 
ception of  this  quarrel  Barbara  had  not  been  un- 
duly eager  to  follow  up  the  attack  on  Mrs.  Pidding- 
hoe;  she  was  a  little  sorry  for  her.  It  was  George's 
attitude  which  inflamed  her.  In  a  flash  she  seemed 
to  see  epitomised  in  the  incident  all  the  turgid  un- 
pleasantness of  his  character — his  vanity,  and  weak- 
ness, his  love  of  comfort,  and  above  all  the  mighty 
claims  of  his  possessive  sense,  a  possessive  sense 
which  included  her  (body  and  soul)  in  its  inventory 
of  household  goods. 

On  the  Sunday  night  after  it  happened,  they  both 
got  home  very  late,  within  ten  minutes  of  each 
other.  They  were  both  a  little  scared  about  the 
quarrel,  and  both  had  had  time  to  relent  somewhat. 
At  the  same  time,  they  had  both  determined  not  to 
give  themselves  away.  George  went  to  her  door, 
and  standing  nonchalantly  in  the  opening,  he  said : 

"Did  you  get  some  dinner?" 

She  replied  in  an  offhand  manner : 

"Yes,  you  bet  I  did.  With  Isabel.  The  place  is 
in  a  nice  muddle.  The  gas  was  escaping.  That  wo- 
man has  pinched  the  keys." 

All  this,  she  implied,  was  George's  fault.  George 
was  convinced  that  it  was  her  fault;  nevertheless 
he  felt  a  little  guilty  about  having  left  her  to  cope 
with  the  situation  alone.  He  mumbled: 

"Oh,  well.  We'll  do  something  about  it  to-morrow 
Good-night." 


SYSTOLE  181 

"  Good-night. " 

Not  a  word,  not  a  gesture  of  real  conciliation — 
not  an  embrace,  for  the  first  time ! 

In  the  days  which  followed,  the  policies  which 
the  cumulative  characteristics  of  those  two  married 
people  embodied  in  themselves  continued  to  sustain 
a  silent  conflict.  A  real  good  row,  with  passion  and 
tears,  would  have  tended  to  clear  the  air;  instead 
of  that,  they  continued  to  be  themselves  in  a  sub- 
dued form.  Between  them  lay  a  barrier  of  unex- 
pected, critical  resentment.  George  was  like — and 
about  as  useful  as — a  cat  during  a  removal.  He 
regarded  the  disunion  of  his  well-ordered  house 
with  an  expression  which  clearly  implied:  " There 
you  are!  What  did  I  say?  Interfere,  alter,  and 
things  go  to  pot.  It  has  taken  me  years  to  build 
this  up,  and  you've  destroyed  it  in  a  day." 

Barbara,  on  her  part,  found — like  many  other  re- 
formers— that  it  is  always  dangerous  to  destroy 
an  essential  thing  till  you  have  found  something 
to  put  in  its  place.  George's  valet,  one  house-maid. 
Annette  and  the  faithful  Snowden  alone  remained. 
Of  these,  the  three  adults  refused  to  do  anything 
beyond  their  normal  allotted  task,  and  even  then 
under  a  kind  of  protest,  as  much  as  to  say: 

1  'We  are  not  used  to  this  sort  of  atmosphere.  You 
must  rectify  it  at  once." 

She  found  herself  trying  to  do  half  the  house- 
work, cleaning  George's  boots,  and  cooking  for  the 
staff.  On  the  third  day  she  managed  to  get  a  house- 
keeper with  an  excellent  character  and  her  husband, 
an  ex-marine.  She  also  got  a  cook.  Within  twenty- 
four  hours  the  cook  was  quarrelling  with  the  house- 
keeper and  refused  to  stop.  A  few  days  later  the 


182  HEARTBEAT 

ex-marine  came  in  one  evening  very  drunk,  just  as 
she  was  going  off  to  the  theatre.  He  insisted  upon 
going  to  sleep  on  a  Chesterfield  in  the  library,  be- 
cause he  said  that  at  last  he  was  on  board  ship.  It 
would  be  tedious  to  recall  the  changes,  the  quarrels, 
the  complications  which  ensued  in  this  household 
which  had  previously  run  with  well-oiled  simplicity. 
It  was  an  undoubted  triumph  for  George,  the  more 
especially  as  he  made  a  point  of  only  being  there 
for  bed  and  breakfast,  the  details  of  both  of  which 
comforts  Barbara  attended  to  herself.  It  was  near- 
ly four  months  before  the  place  regained  any  sem- 
blance of  ordered  calm,  and  even  then  the  standard 
was  nothing  like  so  high  as  it  had  been  in  the  days 
of  "the  Piddinghoe. ' '  Many  things  were  missing, 
including  silver-backed  brushes  of  George's,  some 
carved  ivory  figures,  a  collection  of  Barbara's  trin- 
kets, and  even  a  small  clock.  With  all  the  changes 
it  was  impossible  to  bring  the  guilt  home  to  anyone. 
Moreover  nothing  was  just  where  it  ought  to  be. 

In  one  of  his  more  agreeable  moods  George  fav- 
oured her  with  a  profound  comment. 

"A  house,"  he  said,  "is  like  a  State.  It's  got  to 
be  run  on  human  nature,  not  high-falutin',  ideals." 

He  left  her  to  digest  this  apothegm  at  leisure.  He 
had  gone  before  she  had  time  to  reply : 

"You  mean  to  say  it's  got  to  be  run  by  thieves 
and  drunkards." 

xxn. 

IT  was  George,  however,  who  eventually  "came  to 
her."  He  caught  a  chill  and  got  very  sorry  for  him- 
self. It  was  at  the  time  when  things  had  improved. 


SYSTOLE  183 

A  reliable  Scotch  housekeeper  had  been  installed, 
and  a  cook  who  frequently  cooked  quite  well,  two 
new  housemaids,  and  a  char  to  do  the  unpleasant 
work  for  them — a  period  of  comparative  calm. 

George  came  home  late  after  the  theatre.  He 
said  he  felt  very  tired,  and  his  bones  ached.  He  had 
his  usual  night-cap  and  went  up  to  bed.  She  had 
retired,  too,  but  in  about  half-an-hour's  time  there 
was  a  tap  at  the  door,  and  he  came  in  and  shut  it. 
She  heard  him  stumbling  towards  her  bed  in  the 
darkness,  and  mumbling,  "Fancy!  Fancy!" 

He  lay  down  upon  it,  on  the  outside  of  the  eider- 
down, and  pressed  his  moist  face  against  hers. 

"I've  been  an  awful  cad  to  you,  Fancy,"  he 
whispered. 

He  was  humid  and,  at  the  same  time,  feverish. 

"You're  not  well,  George,"  she  whispered  back. 
"You'd  better  have  some  aspirin.  I'll  get  you 
some." 

He  clung  to  her  and  would  not  let  her  move. 

"It's  not  that.  I've  been  worrying  about  you.  1 
can't  stand  it  any  longer.  I  hate  all  this.  I  want 
you— just  the  same  as  before.  Forgive  me,  Fancy 
— I  love  you. ' ' 

She  lay  there  inert,  and  let  him  kiss  her.  When 
she  could  speak,  she  said: 

"I'm  sorry  it  happened.  You'd  better  let  me  get 
you  some  aspirin." 

"Afterwards,  not  now.  I  want  to  hold  you—  like 
this,  all  alone  in  the  darkness.   Just  you  and  I  to- 
gether—like we  used  to- 
Poor  old  George !  He  was  sorry  for  himself.  ^ 
put  her  hand  at  the  back  of  his  head  and  stroked 
his  hair.    She  mothered  him  discreetly,  shrouding 


184  HEARTBEAT 

her  emotions  in  a  genuine  sympathy  for  his  con- 
dition. This  was  married  life,  then — perhaps  as 
much  as  anyone  dare  expect — fair  days  and  foul 
days,  and  then  a  groping  together  in  the  darkness. 
This  was  marriage,  then — an  institution,  like  a  house 
or  State,  to  be  run  on  "  human  nature,  and  not  on 
high-f alutin '  ideals."  George  had  come  to  her  be- 
cause he  wanted  her,  a  warm  and  comforting  niche 
in  the  structure  of  his  domestic  conception.  To- 
morrow— or  as  soon  as  he  felt  well — everything 
would  go  on  just  the  same,  but  to-night. 
She  felt  the  heave  of  his  body  hungrily  restless  for 
his  traditional  comforts. 

"Get  inside,  then,"  she  whispered  again.  "Only 
you  must  try  and  keep  still.  I'll  go  and  get  you  the 
aspirin  and  some  hot  water." 

On  the  morrow  he  was  still  feverish,  and  she  sent 
for  a  doctor.  It  was  only  a  chill,  but  he  was  obliged 
to  drop  out  of  the  bill  for  three  days.  His  part  was 
played  by  an  understudy.  Barbara  nursed  him,  con- 
trolling, meanwhile,  with  a  firm  hand  her  recon- 
structed household.  When  the  fever  had  abated  he 
sat  about  forlornly  in  a  dressing-gown,  bored  by  the 
enforced  inactivity,  the  absence  of  glamour  and  ap- 
plause. During  the  daytime  he  would  be  contented 
enough,  but  when  it  came  to  seven  o'clock  in  the 
evening  he  would  appear  to  shake  with  an  ague  of 
agitation.  He  should  be  in  the  dressing-room  now, 
with  Manners,  and  Banstead,  and  the  others  danc- 
ing attendance.  He  should  be  at  the  back,  with  call- 
boys  and  property-men  falling  over  each  other, 
touching  their  hats:  "Good  evening,  Mr.  George." 
The  agitated  murmurs  of  the  crowd  in  front,  chat- 
tering over  their  programmes.  Eight  o'clock,  and 


SYSTOLE  185 

the  orchestra  tuning  up— people  rushing  hither  and 
thither.  "Lights,  please,  Mr.  Winslow."  Eight- 
fifteen — "Beginners,  please!"  Eight-thirty,  up  goes 
the  curtain;  the  roar  of  welcome  at  his  familiar 
figure 

"There  he  is!  That's  George  Champneys!  Good 
old  George ! ' ' 

Oh,  he  had  no  use  for  Barbara  during  these  vica- 
rious exultations,  only  to  say  when  the  pressure 
became  unendurable: 

"I  think  I'll  just  have  a  spot,  old  girl." 

So  soon  as  his  temperature  became  normal  he 
drank  a  lot  of  whisky.  He  said  it  was  good  for  him, 
and  in  a  way  she  believed  it  was.  The  demand  for 
it  was  in  his  blood,  as  was  the  demand  for  adulation 
and  applause.  During  those  days  the  true  charac- 
ter of  the  man  became  vividly  manifest,  and  she 
tried  not  to  see  it.  His  good  temper,  kindness  of 
heart,  and  generosity  were,  to  an  extent,  a  combin- 
ation of  indolence  and  desire  for  popularity.  It  is 
easier  and  pleasanter  to  be  good  tempered  than  to 
be  just  and  critical.  He  followed  the  line  of  least 
resistance  in  all  things.  Generous?  Why  shouldn't 
he  be  generous?  He  had  abundance,  and  nothing 
so  warmed  and  quickened  the  popular  palate  as 
lavish  tipping  and  a  reckless  disregard  for  cost. 
Everything  had  come  too  easily  to  George,  and  the 
result  had  destroyed  his  moral  fibre.  He  was  wear- 
ing badly.  His  body  was  becoming  loose  and  flabby, 
his  face  lined  and  puffy,  his  eyes  dull  and  preoc- 
cupied. His  dog-like  attachment  to  her  was  of  an 
unreliable  kind.  She  was  a  necessary  adjunct  to  his 
existence,  and  yet  she  bored  him.  She  never  knew 
whether  he  was  really  listening  when  she  spoke  to 


186  HEARTBEAT 

him.  One  thing  was  certain.  If  she  told  him  any- 
thing overnight  he  never  remembered  it  the  next 
morning.  This  was  a  trait  which  irritated  her  al- 
most beyond  endurance.  They  would  have  a  long 
discussion  in  the  evening  about,  for  instance,  what 
was  to  be  done  with  a  certain  bureau.  The  matter 
would  be  settled  and  disposed  of,  and  then,  the  next 
morning,  he  would  suddenly  say: 

"I  say,  Fancy,  where  shall  we  put  that  bureau?" 
Neither  was  his  temper  of  that  equable  kind  as- 
cribed to  it  by  reputation.  It  was  one  thing  in  the 
limelight  of  success  to  laugh  and  joke  with  every- 
one, to  raise  salaries,  to  tip  extravagantly,  to  be 
hail-fellow-well-met  with  the  humblest  minions  of 
his  staff.  All  these  stories  got  about.  In  the  bars 
off  Shaftesbury  Avenue  where  the  stage-hands  con- 
gregated, in  the  clubs  where  the  "old  boys"  fore- 
gathered, in  green-rooms  and  agents'  offices,  every- 
one would  say:  "Ah,  you  should  get  in  with  old 
George  Champneys.  He's  a  sport,  if  you  like — 
treats  everyone  alike — gave  young  Cinders  a  quid 

for  carrying  his  bag  out  to  the  car- " 

All  this  was  true,  but  it  was  she  who  had  to  bear 
the  brunt  of  his  sullen  reactions.  He  would  have 
moods  of  unreasoning  irritability,  when  some  triv- 
ial matter — like  cold  toast — would  cause  him  to  sulk 
and  fume  for  hours.  Sometimes  he  would  appear  to 
harbour  some  inexpressible  antagonism  towards  her. 
He  would  regard  her  distrustfully,  as  though  aware 
that  she  filled  the  niche  he  had  designed  for  her  re- 
luctantly— that  she  was  an  eternal  challenge  to  the 
claims  of  his  possessive  sense.  In  short,  he  did  not 
— and  never  would — possess  her.  The  love  which 
"was  to  come  afterwards"  had  not  materialised, 
and  it  was  slipping  farther  from  his  reach. 


SYSTOLE  18? 

Sometimes  he  would  dismiss  her  from  his  mind 
altogether,  and  indulge  in  idle  dreams— the  yellow 
sands  of  the  little  bay  at  Rapallo,  the  villa  entangled 
with  flowers  against  the  dark  trees,  Maisie  leaning 
over  the  balcony  holding  out  her  arms— youth  to 
youth,  the  unmatched  beauty  of  unspoilt  desire. 
And  dark  thoughts  would  flitter  through  his  mind. 
He  had  gained  the  whole  world  and  lost  his  soul.  He 
became  afraid  of  the  darkness  and  the  empty  mo- 
ments. 

"I'll  just  have  a  tot,  old  girl." 

And  so  the  perpetual  compromise  went  on,  the 
eternal  moving  on  and  slipping  back.  And  when 
he  laughed  the  world  laughed  with  him,  and  when 
he  wept  he  wept  alone,  or  into  the  husk  of  a  stillborn 
love.  And  always  there  haunted  him  the  recurrent 
premonition:  "One  day  she'll  get  a  lover— what 
will  I  do  then?' ' 

It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  in  that  moment 
he  thought  only  of  himself.  And  he  admonished 
himself : 

"When  it  happens  I'll  have  to  keep  my  head.  I 
mustn't  kill  her  or  the  man,  or  I'll  get  hanged." 

0  God!  It  might  all  have  been  so  different!  He 
tried  to  analyse  the  reasons,  to  locate  the  precise 
moment  when  everything  had  gone  wrong.  But  he 
could  not.  The  facile  descent  leaves  few  landmarks, 
and  those  which  exist  are  usually  invisible  to  the 
egoist.  It  was  hard  luck,  just  pure  hard  luck.  If, 
now,  he  had  a  child — a  son?  no,  perhaps  a  daughter, 
a  laughing,  sunny  girl,  with  all  her  life  before  her, 
flinging  her  little  arms  around  his  neck — how  secure 
he  would  feel  with  a  love  like  that.  No  one  can 
usurp  a  father's  place  or  a  mother's.  But  this  other 


188  HEARTBEAT 

love — that's  like  an  open  conflict  with  the  world. 
He  became  watchful  and  jealous.  He  must  be  more 
careful  with  his  darling  Fancy  in  the  future. 

One  day  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  Samuel 
Toller  was  a  dangerous  person  to  have  about — 
young  and  unattached,  rather  good  looking,  and  be- 
coming too  free  and  intimate.  He  sent  him  away 
in  charge  of  a  tour  and  engaged  Caleb  Thirkettle  as 
his  secretary.  Caleb  Thirkettle  was  also  young,  but 
he  was  a  plain,  serious-minded  young  man,  married 
to  Grade  Bard,  the  actress ;  and  they  had  two  young 
children. 

XXIH. 

BAKBAEA  was  only  partly  conscious  of  her  husband's 
disorderly  humours.  After  the  revelation  which  had 
come  to  her  during  his  brief  illness,  she  preferred 
not  to  indulge  in  moral  speculations,  not  to  visualise 
dubious  hypotheses.  She  had  failed,  her  dreams 
had  not  come  true ;  nothing  was  left  but  the  ancient 
salve  of  making  the  best  of  a  bad  job.  Direct  com- 
pensation in  the  way  of  material  things  was  easily 
accessible,  and  for  a  time  she  abandoned  herself  to 
it.  She  snapped  the  shutter  on  the  little  visions 
which  had  accompanied  her  through  life.  Only  one 
still  persisted  in  dancing  before  her  eyes  uninvited. 
It  came  at  queer  odd  moments — in  the  street,  in  her 
dressing-room,  whilst  singing,  and  when  alone  in 
the  darkness — if  only  she  had  a  child — a  little 
daughter;  no,  perhaps  a  son,  one  who  would  cling 
to  her  and  call  her  "Mummy" — that  would  be  a  love 
that  would  endure  through  the  inevitable  fading 
and  withering  of  the  leaf.  No  one  could  supersede 


SYSTOLE  189 

her.  And  he  would  grow  up  into  a  proud,  strong 
man;  not  like  his  father,  more  like — the  knight  of 
her  dreams. 

And  so  the  tragi-comedy  of  this  dubious  alliance 
went  on :  nights  of  tunefulness  and  charm,  and  gay, 
mad  laughter;  applause  and  beauty,  merry  parties 
and  extravagant  feasts;  fine1  clothes  and  motor- 
rides  to  the  open  country;  wit,  and  company,  and 
social  interplay;  meeting  together  and  parting; 
spasmodic  attempts  to  regain  a  thing  which  had 
never  existed;  pity  and  tears,  and  the  groping  to- 
gether in  the  darkness ;  sullen  realisations ;  and  then 
back  once  more  to  dance  to  the  tune  of  the  piper. 

One  evening  a  strange  thing  happened  to  Bar- 
bara. The  run  of  "Laugh  and  Grow  Fat"  had 
come  to  an  end,  and  they  were  rehearsing  a  new 
revue;  consequently;  many  of  her  evenings  were 
free.  Isabel  had  again  got  a  small  part  at  Daly's, 
and  on  this  evening  in  question  Barbara  had  ar- 
ranged to  go  with  her  after  the  show  to  supper  at  a 
little  cafe,  frequented  by  "the"  profession,  near 
Long  Acre.  They  arrived  just  before  twelve,  and 
the  supper-room  was  very  crowded.  They  eventu- 
ally got  seats  at  a  table  in  the  corner,  where  two 
old  men — obviously  actors — were  finishing  a  meal. 
They  were  both  drinking  whisky,  and  were  in  that 
state  difficult  to  determine  whether  drunk  or  sober. 
There  are  some  old  men  who  have  the  genius  of 
appearing  always  drunk,  although  they8  may  not 
have  had  anything  to  drink  for  weeks.  Their  con- 
versational methods  are  always  ruminative,  forensic 
and  redundant.  They  bang  on  the  table  and  say: 

"Ah,  old  boy,  you  should  have  heard  Florenzo 


190  HEARTBEAT 

And  then  they  give  a  convincing  imitation  of 
Florenzo,  a  performance  which  one  should  always 
allow  them  to  do,  because  they  enjoy  it  so  much 
themselves.  These  two  old  blue-chins  were  of  that 
kind.  Isabel  and  Barbara  both  knew  the  type  well, 
and  were  not  unduly  alarmed.  Even  when  one  of 
them  said  to  Barbara: 

"Mademoiselle,  you  have  the  face  of  a  queen 
who  ruled  in  Ascalon." 

She  only  smiled,  and  said: 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so!  Might  I  trouble  you  for 
the  0.  K.  sauce?" 

The  two  girls  had  their  supper  in  comparative 
peace.  When  they  had  nearly  finished  Barbara 
suddenly  heard  one  of  them  say : 

"Ah,  old  boy,  there  has  been  no  one  since  Han- 
nifan — you  take  it  from  me." 

For  a  moment  the  name  Hannifan  conveyed  noth- 
ing to  her;  then  she  remembered,  and  her  heart 
beat  violently.  Leaning  across  the  table  she  said: 

"Excuse  me,  sir,  did  you  know  Hannifan?" 

The  old  actor's  face  lighted  up  with  surprise  and 
a  joyous  anticipation.  Here  was  a  chance,  if  ever 
there  was  one,  to  talk  and  air  his  experiences.  And 
not,  mark  you,  to  old  Bob  Stepney,  who  had  heard 
it  all  a  hundred  times  and  never  listened  once,  but 
to  a  young  and  pretty  woman,  a  stranger,  eager  to 
hear.  He  cleared  his  throat  and  thrust  back  his 
head. 

"My  dear,  Hannifan  and  I  were  hand-in-glove 
for  longer  than  your  life.  Hannifan  and  I  were  on 
the  road  together,  in  fit-ups,  when  these  syndicate 
halls  were  unborn.  Hannifan  and  I  shared  our 
crusts  and  bowls  of  gruel,  when  one  had  to  serve 


SYSTOLE  191 

an  apprenticeship — not  like  now.  Hannifan!  Ah! 
there  was  an  artist  for  you " 

' '  Yes,  yes,  I  see.  Excuse  me,  though,  did  you  ever 
meet  a  singer  called  Kitty  0 'Bane I" 

The  old  actor  looked  a  little  annoyed  at  the  inter- 
ruption. It  had  spoilt  his  periods.  He  might  eventu- 
ally have  touched  on  Kitty  O'Bane,  but  he  had 
hardly  launched  Hannifan  yet.  He  puckered  up  his 
lips. 

1  'Yes,  I  knew  Kitty — an  artist,  too.  She  was  out 
in  the  summer  of  '84.  Hannifan  said  to  me " 

"Oh,  please  tell  me  anything  you  know  about 
her." 

Very  well,  then,  if  she  wouldn't  let  him  talk  about 
Hannifan,  Kitty  0  'Bane  would  serve  almost  as  well. 

"Kitty  O'Bane  might  have  climbed  to  the  top  of 
the  tree.  She  had  youth,  beauty,  and  great  talent. 
Her  mother  was  Irish ;  her  father —  ' '  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  "Kitty  O'Bane,  when  I  first  met  her, 
was  not  unlike  you,  mademoiselle.  She  had  the 
same  dark  eyes,  the  eager  lips,  the  Queen  of  Ascalon 
air.  She  was  taller  than  you,  and  she  could  ride.  I 
saw  her  first  in  a  circus,  jumping  through  hoops.  I 
was  with  dear  old  Larry,  the  best  sand-dancer  who 
ever  put  toe  to  board — 

"Why  didn't  she  climb  to  the  top  of  the  tree?" 

The  old  man  drew  himself  up,  and  took  a  deep 
draught  of  whisky-and-water.  Then  he  said  por- 
tentously : 

"Because  of  the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  that  I" 

"I  can't  tell  you  exactly,  my  dear.   Women  have 


192  HEARTBEAT 

always  been  an  unopened  book  to  me.  There  was 
some  scandal.  She  got  mixed  up  in  a  love-affair  in 
higli  society,  I  believe.  She  left  the  company.  We 
did  not  see  her  for  years.  Indeed,  I  myself  never 
saw  her  again.  But  Larry,  I  remember,  told  me 
that  he  came  across  her  in  Manchester.  She  was 
finished,  broken,  darting  in  and  out  of  booths,  cadg- 
ing money  any  old  way.  She  went  down,  and  down, 
and  down." 

"Did  she  die?" 

"This  was  twenty  years  ago,  or  more,  my  dear, 
and  she  was  sliding  down.  The  upward  path  is 
lined  with  thorns,  the  downward  path  is  greased 
with  butter.  I  cannot  say.  Why  do  you  ask  me 
about  Kitty  O'Bane?" 

"Because  she  was  my  mother,"  said  Barbara,  and 
burst  into  tears. 


BOOK  III. 
DIASTOLE 


BOOK  in.— DIASTOLE 

IN  reorganising  the  details  of  her  domestic  world, 
Barbara  found  a  certain  element  of  delight.  It  was 
her  first  real  taste  of  power.  Having  routed  the 
redoubtable  Mrs.  Piddinghoe  and  triumphed  over 
George,  she  took  care  not  to  let  the  reins  of  author- 
ity slip  from  her  hand  again.  Aided  by  the  Scotch 
housekeeper,  she  checked  all  the  orders  and  sup- 
plies, and  even  went  on  pilgrimages  to  various 
stores  to  ascertain  whether  they  were  getting  the 
best  value  for  their  money.  It  was  rather  a  sur- 
prising streak  in  her,  probably  a  by-product  of  the 
operation  of  having  had  a  Chancellor  for  a  father. 
Every  Saturday  morning  she  went  into  the  library 
and  spent  an  hour  or  so  going  over  the  accounts 
with  Caleb  Thirkettle,  the  new  secretary.  It  was  a 
source  of  satisfaction  to  her  to  realise  the  respect 
paid  her  by  this  rather  solemn  young  man.  He  was 
the  antithesis  to  the  breezy  Toller,  who  always 
treated  the  domestic  finances  of  the  Champneys' 
household  with  airy  indifference.  To  Thirkettle  it 
all  seemed  very  important  and  interesting,  and  he 
supplied  her  with  order-books,  and  receipt-files,  and 
a  wages-book  for  the  servants.  If  anything  went 
wrong  with  the  electric  light  or  gas,  instead  of 
writing  to  a  firm  about  it,  he  would  invariably  rec- 
tify the  trouble  with  his  own  hands.  He  was  a 

193 


194  HEARTBEAT 

competent  young  man,  with  a  broad,  flat,  eager  face, 
rather  queer  and  frog-like.  His  grey  eyes,  which 
were  set  wide  apart,  were  reflective  and  wistful. 
There  was  something  about  him  which  appealed  to 
Barbara. 

"He's  unhappy,  and  he's  taking  it  like  a  sport," 
she  decided. 

He  was  deferential  and  friendly,  but  not  over- 
familiar.  It  was  always  a  pleasure  to  ask  his  advice. 
His  face  lighted  up,  and  he  had  a  way  of  twisting 
his  head  on  one  side  and  nodding  it  thoughtfully. 
Then  he  would  begin : 

"Well,  what  I  would  suggest,  Mrs.  Champneys, 
is  this " 

He  was  essentially  a  person  to  be  trusted  and 
confided  in,  but  a  little  difficult  to  draw  out.  Her 
affairs  appeared  to  him  of  so  much  more  importance 
than  his  own.  He  spent  part  of  his  time  at  the 
theatre  and  part  of  the  time  in  the  house.  George 
liked  him  and  found  him  incomparably  more  use- 
ful than  Toller  had  been.  He  usually  referred  to 
him  as  "Frog- face"  when  speaking  to  Barbara,  but 
to  his  face  he  called  him  "Thirk." 

Thirk  was  in  every  way  a  great  success.  Apart 
from  his  executive  efficiency,  he  acted  as  a  kind  of 
bridge  between  husband  and  wife.  He  had  the  con- 
fidence of  both,  and  as  the  gulf  between  them  tend- 
ed to  get  wider  and  wider,  so  did  this  broad  safe 
bridge  became  more  and  more  valuable.  Many  a 
time  when  the  tension  became  acute,  when  the  con- 
flict of  wills  threatened  a  crisis,  by  some  adroit 
manoeuvre  the  young  secretary  would  save  the  situ- 
ation., Barbara's  subversive  inclinations  towards 
material  delights  had  not  made  things  easier.  She 


DIASTOLE  195 

frequently  went  to  suppers  and  dances  after  the 
theatre,  and  when  she  arrived  home  George  would 
be  asleep.  She  entertained  more,  and  spent  money 
lavishly.  It  was  not,  as  she  explained  to  Thirkettle 
when  they  were  going  through  accounts,  that  she 
"wanted  to  be  mean,  but  I  do  hate  being  done." 
And  Caleb  Thirkettle  agreed  that  it  was  a  very 
human  and  natural  feeling. 

Neither  of  them  anticipated  at  that  moment  the 
part  which  human  and  natural  feelings  were  to 
play  in  the  immediate  future.  The  welding  of  the 
links  in  that  emotional  chain  which  was  destined 
eventually  to  circumscribe  their  united  world  of  de- 
sires was  a  process  which  occupied  some  time.  It 
began  with  the  fellowship  of  a  domestic  inventory. 
It  grew  in  the  interchange  of  the  most  common- 
place gestures  of  personal  inquiry.  It  budded  in 
the  mutual  recognition  of  unexpressed  suffering.  It 
came  to  flower  in  the  unadorned  confession  of  a  fail- 
ure to  achieve.  Barbara  elaborated  the  full  story 
of  Mrs.  Piddinghoe,  and  the  quality  of  sympathy 
which  her  account  evoked  prompted  her  to  ask  Caleb 
Thirkettle 's  opinion  about  the  colour  of  curtains  for 
a  spare  bedroom.  Then  she  began  to  consult  him 
about  her  frocks  and  hats.  Queer,  oh !  so  very  queer. 
What  could  Caleb  know  about  frocks  and  hats?  And 
yet  she  felt  that  she  had  never  had  so  sympathetic 
a  consultant.  Frocks  and  hats  led  to  other  things. 
As  the  days  went  on,  she  found  herself  more  and 
more  depending  upon  his  quick  opinion,  and  it  was 
not  his  opinion  only.  It  was  that,  in  consulting  him, 
the  matter,  however  trival,  became  of  increased 
importance  to  herself.  She  looked  forward  to  his 
visits,  and  saved  up  little  things  to  tell  him.  Never 


196  HEARTBEAT 

before  in  her  life  had  she  met  anyone  to  whom  the 
barest  detail  became  significant.  Soon  she  had  told 
him  all  about  Isabel,  and  the  affair  of  herself  re- 
hearsing for  the  revue,  and  then  being  frozen  out 
by  Mr.  Banstead,  and  the  return  of  Rosie  Ventnor. 
These  disclosures  rapidly  led  to  confessions  of  a 
profounder  nature.  She  told  him  about  her  father, 
her  life  at  High  Barrow,  about  Billy  Hamaton,  and 
then  the  secret  concerning  her  mother,  her  father's 
will,  her  life  on  tour.  She  only  held  back  at  the  in- 
decisions which  obsessed  her  when  George  proposed. 

Even  this  avowal,  she  knew,  was  only  held  in 
abeyance.  And  it  gave  her  a  certain  joy  to  feel  that 
one  day  she  would  tell  Caleb  even  this.  She  could 
envisage  the  distressed  expression  on  his  face,  the 
little,  quick,  nervous  way  he  would  shake  his  head, 
the  movement  of  the  eyes  which  seemed  to  absorb 
the  vision  of  an  experience  almost  before  she  had 
described  it. 

One  afternoon  she  returned  late  from  a  tea  and 
dance,  and  going  into  the  library  she  found  Caleb 
seated  at  the  bureau  with  his  head  in  his  hands. 
The  room  was  in  semi-darkness.  He  looked  up  and 
made  a  movement  as  though  to  turn  on  the  electric 
light.  She  waved  her  muff  at  him  and  called  out: 

"No.  Don't  turn  on  the  light.  Come  and  sit  by 
the  fire,  if  you're  not  busy." 

He  rose  and  walked  obediently  to  the  easy  chair 
on  the  right  of  the  fireplace.  Barbara  knelt  on  a 
tuffet.  They  looked  at  each  other,  and  neither  spoke. 
The  fire  crackled.  Over  in  the  studio  two  girls  were 
rehearsing  a  duet.  George,  she  knew,  was  in  town. 
At  last  she  smiled  at  him  and  whispered : 

"What  is  the  matter,  Thirk?" 


DIASTOLE  197 

He,  too,  tried  to  smile,  but  the  glow  of  the  fire 
revealed  a  smile  all  twisted  awry. 

She  repeated  her  question,  and  he  answered 
huskily: 

"I've  no  right  to  talk  to  you— as  I  would  like  to." 

The  militant  desire  for  revolt  leapt  to  the  fore- 
front of  the  girl's  mind.  She  flashed  out: 

"Damn  it,  Caleb;  you  have  every  right." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  called  him  Caleb,  and 
the  employment  of  the  Christian  name  was  part  of 
the  challenge  she  was  flinging  to  the  dark  forces 
which  always  appeared  to  be  imprisoning  her  de- 
sires. Why  shouldn't  she  have  a  friend?  Probably 
it  was  her  own  fault  that  she  had  so  far  muddled  her 
life,  but  she  had  no  intention  of  being  cut  off  from 
every  channel  which  might  lead  to  a  greater  free- 
dom. The  young  man  did  not  appear  surprised. 
He  sighed  comfortably,  as  though  the  impulsive- 
ness of  her  interjection  had  steadied  him.  He  shook 
his  head  and  said  quietly: 

"What  are  you  doing  with  your  life,  Mrs.  Champ- 
neys?  I've  muddled  mine." 

What  an  odd  question !  What  was  she  doing  with 
her  life?  No  one  had  ever  asked  her  such  a  thing 
before.  What  was  she  doing  with  her  life?  Yes,  of 
course,  she. knew  that  Caleb  had  muddled  his.  She 
could  tell  it  by  his  eyes.  And  she,  too — but  no,  she 
wasn't  going  to  acknowledge  yet  that  she  had  failed. 
She  spoke  defensively. 

"I  know  I  haven't  done  much.  I  expected  to  do 
more — get  on  more  quickly.  I've  married  a  success- 
ful actor-manager.  I — I've — 

She  knew  she  was  talking  outside  her  subject,  and 
when  he  replied : 


198  HEARTBEAT 

"You're  only  speaking  of  material  failures  and 
successes,"  she  answered  humbly: 

"Oh!  I  know." 

There  was  a  silence  in  the  room,  emphasised  by 
the  distant  sound  of  girls'  shrill  voices  singing  a 
song  about  "Casey's  sold  his  sister's  socks  to  Sue." 
The  somewhat  ironic  contrast  between  this  song  and 
the  sombre  atmosphere  of  muffled  confession  was 
not  lost  upon  Barbara.  She  could  not  hear  the 
Words,  but  she  knew  the  song  quite  well,  and  had 
sung  in  the  chorus  innumerable  times.  The  ridic- 
ulous words  kept  jumbling  through  her  head  as  she 
listened  to  Caleb's  confession. 

"You  see,  both  the  parents  persuaded — almost 
insisted.  I  had  only  just  left  school.  The  child  was 
born  before  our  marriage,  you  see.  The  trouble  is, 
I  never  loved  her,  never,  never.  I  lost  my  head.  We 
met  at  a  skating-rink  in  Whitby.  I  knew  nothing.  I 
could  not  even  earn  my  own  living  at  that  time.  The 
trouble  is,  Mrs.  Champneys,  she  loved  me.  She  still 
loves  me — in  her  way.  I  have  no  capacity  for  cru- 
elty. Do  you  understand  what  I  mean?  At  Char- 
borough  I  won  prizes  for  prose  essays,  and  poetry 
also.  I  was  mad  about  the  drama.  We  were 
turned  adrift.  I  tried  to  act,  but  it  was  a  failure. 
Grade  got  small  parts,  but  I  couldn't  sponge  on 
her,  could  I?  I  have  written  two  plays — neither 
suitable  for  commercial  production.  If  it  had  only 
happened  later.  I've  had  no  chance  of  going 
through  the  mill.  I'm  an  amateur.  I  want  to  do 
so  much.  I'm  not  exactly  a  fool.  I'm  a  kind  of 
intellectual  handy-man.  I  can  earn  my  living  now. 
I  could  in  all  sorts  of  ways.  I  believe  I  could  be  a 
plumber.  Don't  laugh  at  me.  But  it's  the  terrible 


DIASTOLE  199 

sense  of  not  being  allowed  to  do  the  work  one  wants 

"Why  don't  you  leave  her?" 

"How  can  I  leave  her?  It  would  be  unspeak- 
ably cruel.  And  there  are  the  children." 

"Do  you  love  the  children?" 

"One  can't  help  being  fond  of  one's  children." 

Again  a  silence  fell  between  them.  Barbara's 
heart  was  beating  fast.  She  knelt  there  in  the  fire- 
light, a  woman  aglow  in  the  luxury  of  the  confes- 
sional. Clutching  the  beads  at  her  throat,  she  whis- 
pered: 

"I've  mucked  things  too,  Caleb.  I  expect  you 
understand.  It  has  taken  me  years  to  realise  that 
I  don't  love  my  husband.  He  promised  me  that 
love  would  come  afterwards.  .  .  ." 

Her  voice  died  away,  and  they  were  afraid  to 
look  at  each  other.  Suddenly  she  said: 

" Call  me  Barbara.    We  must  be  pals." 

She  did  not  turn  her  head,  but  she  was  aware  of 
him  rocking  restlessly  in  his  chair.  His  voice  was 
almost  inaudible. 

"You  see  what  it  is  drifting  to.  I  must  go  away, 
Mrs.  Champneys." 

She  could  not  account  for  it,  but  when  he  said 
that  she  felt  a  queer  stab  of  triumph.  For  the 
moment  the  innate  desires  of  her  being  were  com- 
pletely satisfied.  They  demanded  nothing  but  re- 
pose for  the  purpose  of  reflection.  She  laughed 
softly  and  stood  up. 

"We're  a  queer  couple,  Thirk.  You  mustn't  de- 
sert me.  I've  got  to  go  and  dress  now  for  the 
theatre, "  . 


200  HEARTBEAT 

As  she  left  she  closed  the  door  quietly,  as  one 
might  on  leaving  a  room  where  someone  was  at 
prayer. 

H. 

THAT  night  Barbara  slept  but  little.  She  was  con- 
scious primarily  of  a  profound  surprise. 

1  'I've  had  some  rum  experiences,"  she  thought, 
''but  nothing  like  this  has  ever  happened  to  me  be- 
fore. I've  never  met  anyone  before  I  wanted  to  tell 
everything  to,  regardless  ..." 

Caleb,  with  his  reticences  and  his  restlessness  had 
come  like  a  prophet  out  of  the  wilderness.  His  al- 
most incoherent  implications  had  conjured  up  a  vast 
sea  of  delight  of  which  she  at  present  only  stood 
on  the  foreshore.  His  perfunctory  dismissal  of  ma- 
terial failures  and  successes  came  almost  in  the 
nature  of  revelation.  She  was  uneducated,  neglected, 
already  sickening  of  "the  flesh-pots  of  Egypt,"  but 
hungry  for  more  substantial  satisfactions.  What 
had  Caleb  to  offer? 

"It's  damned  awful  being  a  woman,"  she  thought 
at  one  point.  It  was  less  the  restraints  and  inhibi- 
tions which  the  sex  disability  imposed  upon  her  than 
the  trend  of  outlook  which  the  exigencies  of  her  up- 
bringing had  forced  her  to  adopt.  Had  she  been  a 
boy,  her  father  would  have  educated  her  differently. 
Had  she  been  a  boy,  she  would  have  championed 
her  mother's  cause  openly.  She  would  have  had 
the  freedom  to  attack  and  reconstruct. 

Caleb?  Their  cases  were  not  identical.  He  had 
made  his  own  mistake,  and  he  was  free  to  rectify  it. 
She  was  a  victim  of  the  mistakes  of  others,  and  she 


DIASTOLE  201 

had  to  work  furtively,  in  the  dark.  She  had  to  grope 
for  the  spiritual  threads  which  others  had  snapped. 
Towering  above  her  was  the  immovable  mass  of  her 
father 's  enduring  shadow — and  she  was  by  no  means 
an  irresistible  force.  Almost  as  though  he  had  or- 
dained it,  she  now  staggered  beneath  the  dominance 
of  another  man  who  exercised  in  the  flesh  somewhat 
similar  prerogatives.  A  weaker  character  than  her 
father,  but  with  the  same  myopic  conservatism  of 
outlook.  A  little  more  human  than  her  father- 
indeed,  in  many  ways  far  too  human — but  equally 
egoistic,  self-sufficient,  and  blind  to  another's — par- 
ticularly if  it  be  a  woman's — point  of  view;  and  by 
these  tokens  carrying  in  his  heart  the  infinite 
capacity  for  cruelty. 

In  that  mood  she  postulated  mankind  as  a  wholly 
unbalanced  discord  of  the  sexes.  Men  were  cruel. 
Her  smattering  of  reading  presented  jumbled 
visions  from  Joan  of  Arc  burnt  at  the  stake  to  Tess 
hanged.  Her  own  experience  rioted  with  recollec- 
tions from  her  father's  injustice  and  silent  tyranny 
to  the  little  agents  who  mauled  girls  about,  from 
George's  almost  unconscious  grip  upon  her  freedom 
to  the  arrogance  of  Julius  Banstead.  Strangely 
enough,  this  sense  of  inequality  did  not  depress  her; 
rather  she  felt  stimulated  and  militant.  St.  George 
would  never  have  been  a  hero  if  there  hadn't  been 
a  dragon  or  two  about. 

She  awoke  refreshed  and  eager  for  whatever  the 
day  might  bring  forth.  And  the  first  thing  that  the 
day  brought  forth  was  a  simple  desire  that  her  life 
might  serve  some  useful  end.  She  evolved  this  ami- 
able ambition  from  her  own  inner  :consciousnesi 
while  having  a  bath,  and  she  was  e xtremely  plea* 
with  herself  at  the  resolution.  Caleb  had  said  noth- 


202  HEARTBEAT 

ing  about  serving  a  useful  end,  but  the  influence  of 
his  benign  disquietude  prompted  it.  She  resolved 
that  George  was  frankly  a  materialist  and  to  that 
hour  she  had  been  the  same.  "What  were  they  do- 
ing with  their  lives  but  getting  on,  making  money, 
chasing  popularity,  buying  comforts,  and  worship- 
ping luxuries?  Never  once  had  George  hinted  at 
anything  more  ennobling.  He  could  be  generous, 
kind-hearted,  sentimental — all  within  the  ambit  of 
these  material  considerations ;  beyond  that  the  shoots 
of  his  ambitions  withered  and  died. 

The  next  thing  which  the  day  brought  forth  was 
distressing  news.  After  the  conversation  with  the 
old  actor  in  the  cafe,  she  had  written  to  a  lawyer 
in  Liverpool  and  asked  him  to  try  and  trace  any 
record  of  her  mother.  A  letter  came  by  the  second 
post.  The  lawyer  had  been  successful  in  his  search. 
Her  mother  had  died  nineteen  years  ago,  in  an 
infirmary  in  one  of  the  suburbs  of  Liverpool.  Hav- 
ing apparently  no  relatives  or  friends  or  money,  she 
had  been  buried  in  a  pauper 's  grave.  "When  Bar- 
bara read  that  she  cried  out  in  agony.  Annette 
came  running  into  the  room: 
"Oln,  madame!  madame!  qu'est-ce  qu'il  y  a?" 
But  Barbara  had  no  use  at  that  moment  for  the 
decorative  French  maid.  Her  heart  was  bleeding. 
She  must  go  and  break  the  news  to  George.  But 
George  was  in  the  studio,  trying  over  some  songs 
with  Birtles ;  he  would  resent  any  interruption.  Even 
if  she  told  him — she  envisaged  his  large  moist  face 
looking  rather  scared  and  distressed;  not  distressed 
on  account  of  her  mother,  but  distressed  because  the 
news  disturbed  his  own  placid  environment;  it  up- 
set his  dear  Fancy  and  made  her  difficult  and  unap- 
proachable. She  had  told  him  about  the  old  actor, 


DIASTOLE  203 

and  that  she  had  written  to  Liverpool,  but  he  had 
never  enquired  whether  she  had  heard  any  news. 
He  looked  upon  the  episode  as  unpleasant  and  un- 
necessary. Why  couldn't  she  let  sleeping  dogs  lie? 
On  second  thoughts  she  decided  not  to  tell  him. 
What  was  the  use?  She  must  tell  someone.  There 
was  Isabel.  Isabel  would  probably  weep  and  hug 
her,  but  would  she  understand?  Isabel  had  a  way 
of  sometimes  just  saying  the  wrong  thing.  She  was 
as  great  a  materialist  as  George. 

No,  the  only  person  who  would  understand  was 
her  new  friend  Caleb,  and  he  didn't  come  till  four 
o'clock.  She  did  not  go  out;  but  hung  about  the 
house  in  a  fever  of  impatience.  When  he  did  arrive 
the  ordeal  became  acuter  still,  for  George  comman- 
deered the  young  secretary  and  they  retired  to  the 
library.  She  went  to  the  door  and  listened,  and  she 
could  hear  George  comfortably  sucking  his  pipe  and 
droning. 

«Er — you  might  write  a  line  to  Sydney  Airedale 
and  ask  him  if  he's  read  'The  Gay  Dog's  Day.' 
want  to  get  his  report  in.  Oscar  Lemmon  Doesn't 
think  much  of  it.  By  the  way,  make  a  note,  I  prom- 
ised Birtles  15  per  cent,  on  the  rake  off  we  shall 
get  from  the  sale  of  'Mr.  Percy's  Pants  Have 
Parted  '  Where  are  last  week's  returns  from  the  B 
company  on  tour?  'Urn.  I  told  Ledger  that  it 
would  be  no  good  north  of  Glasgow  and  Edinburgh. 
'Um,  'urn,  well— covering  expenses,  anyway." 

How  trivial  and  vulgar  it  all  seemed!    And  there 
was  Caleb  Thirkettle,  who  might  be  writing  pros 
dramas  or  doing  something  great  and  worthy,  wast- 
ing his  time  writing  stupid  notes  about  Mr.  Percy  s 
Pants!    Caleb  was  trapped,  and  she  was  trapped, 


204  HEARTBEAT 

caught  up  in  the  machinery  of  social  progress.  Mr. 
Percy's  pants!  Social  progress!  Would  George 
never  stop  talking?  At  last  he  drifted  from  busi- 
ness to  social  matters,  and  she  heard  him  tell  Caleb 
two  of  l  i  the  very  latest, ' '  which  he  had  heard  at  the 
Club  yesterday,  and  Caleb  laughed  politely.  Or, 
perhaps,  he  was  really  amused.  Men  were  strange 
creatures. 

With  almost  uncanny  deliberation  George  came 
out  into  the  hall  and  put  on  his  hat  and  coat.  On 
observing  her  he  said : 

11  Hullo,  dear.  I've  got  to  go  up  to  White's  to 
meet  Joe  Costing. " 

The  temptation  to  say  "All  right.  Well,  hurry 
up,"  was  almost  unendurable. 

When  he  had  really  gone  she  darted  into  the 
library,  and,  without  any  preliminary  explanation, 
thrust  the  letter  into  Caleb's  hand  and  said:  "Bead 
that!" 

She  saw  the  look  of  troubled  concern  steal  over 
his  face  as  his  eyes  scanned  the  letter.  When  he  had 
finished  it,  he  was  really  angry.  He  exclaimed: 

* '  My  God !    What  a  damned  injustice ! ' ' 

Oh,  it  was  just  what  she  wanted,  someone  to  ex- 
press her  own  feelings,  and  to  share  the  horror  and 
the  anger.  Now  that  she  had  her  victim  there  she 
did  not  mean  to  spare  him.  She  stood  with  her 
back  to  the  fire,  and  tears  started  to  her  eyes,  al- 
though her  voice  was  fairly  under  control. 

1  'Think  of  it,  Caleb.  My  father  buried  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  my  mother  in  a  pauper's  grave.  And 
at  one  time  they  must  have  loved  each  other.  They 
shared  the  same  house,  the  same  bed.  Do  you  think 
he  could  have  known?  Did  they  drift  apart?  If 


DIASTOLE  205 

Father  was  so  hard,  so  unjust  as  that— why  did  he 
keep  that  packet  of  love  letters?  What  could  Mother 
have  done— that  the  lawyer  said  she  treated  him 
badly,  'after  all  his  generosity'?" 

She  rattled  out  these  questions,  knowing  full  well 
that  Caleb  could  not  give  any  satisfactory  answers, 
but  comforted  in  sharing  the  anguish  they  pro- 
voked. 

When  she  had  quieted  a  little,  he  said  reflec- 
tively : 

* '  Your  Mother  could  not  have  been  a  bad  woman. ' ' 

The  remark  surprised  her,  and  she  exclaimed- 
"Why?" 

"People  have  said  that  you  are  the  spit  and  im- 
age of  her." 

Ah!  She  wanted  him  to  know  the  truth  of  all 
things.  She  could  not  let  that  pass.  She  went  up 
close  to  him  and  whispered  fiercely : 

" Don't  be  deceived,  Caleb.  I'm  no  bally  heroine. 
I'm  awful  at  moments.  You'd  never  believe  it  if  1 
told  you  what  I'm  like.  I'm  out  for  myself  all  the 
time.  I've  always  been  like  that.  As  a  child  I  was 
utterly  selfish  and  spoiled.  When  I  look  back  on  it 
I  feel  convinced  now  that  I  only  married  George  be- 
cause it  would  help  me  on.  Till  you  came  and  talked 
about  'material  successes  and  failures'  I  believed  my 
mission  was  just  that — to  get  on,  and  be  popular  and 
rich  and  successful.  But  now — somehow  I  believe 
that  it  is  something  else — 

"Which  goes  to  prove  my  contention.  Fundamen- 
tally you're  fine.  They've  never  given  you  a  chance 
—Barbara." 

"Thank  you  for  calling  me  Barbara.  You're  aw- 
fully nice  to  me,  Caleb,  but,  believe  me,  I  don't  de- 


206  HEARTBEAT 

serve  it.  I  know  I'm  not  an  out-and-out  rotter  like 
— some  of  these  women.  But,  oh!  I  have  awful 
vicious,  foolish  impulses.  I'm  not  only  selfish." 

"The  tragedy  is  that  a  man  may  have  vicious, 
foolish  impulses,  and  be  buried  in  Westminster  Ab- 
bey. If  a  woman  has  them  she  goes  to  a  pauper's 
grave." 

"Then  there  is  no  God." 

"Yes,  there  is.  That's  just  what  there  is— a  God." 

"Oh,  Caleb,  tell  me  what  you  mean." 

The  young  man  turned  away  from  her  and  walked 
slowly  up  and  down  the  room.  The  troubled  look 
still  haunted  his  eyes.  He  spoke  disconnectedly. 

"I  am  bad  at  explaining,  Barbara.  I  can  only  say 
things  as  they  occur  to  me.  I'll  tell  you  why  there's 
a  God  when  sometimes  it  seem  there  can't  be.  One 
has  to  look  at  the  broad  line.  Man  has  sprung  from 
an  inferior  mammal.  What  impresses  me  in  this — 
in  the  big  sweep  of  physical  and  spiritual  evolution 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  retrogression.  Sometimes 
things  appear  to  be  going  backwards,  but  this  is 
only  because  they  are  preparing  for  a  spring  for- 
ward. Individuals  fail,  races  become  decadent  and 
die,  but  the  thrust  of  humanity  must  inevitably  be — 
upward." 

Barbara  pondered  these  statements  carefully. 
They  went  a  little  beyond  her  immediate  comprehen- 
sion, but  they  were  charged  with  hope.  She  frowned 
at  the  fire. 

"Do  you  believe  in  Nemesis,  then?" 

"I  believe  in  a  spiritual  Nemesis." 

Spiritual !  Why  did  Caleb  always  talk  about  spir- 
itual things,  when  no  one  else  had  ever  done  so  ex- 
cept in  connection  with  the  Church  or  table-rapping! 


DIASTOLE  207 

Without  turning  her  head  she  said  eagerly: 

"What  precisely  do  you  mean  by  spiritual !" 

"That  part  of  us  which  deals  with  ideas  " 

"Ideas  I" 

"Yes.  You  and  your  mother  are  both  victims  of 
ideas.  Those  ideas  will  meet  their  Nemesis.  Listen, 
Barbara;  we  are  all  so  apt  to  regard  the  ugliness 
and  injustice  which  surround  us  that  we  overlook  the 
greater  ugliness  and  injustice  from  which  they  have 
sprung." 

"Do  you  really  believe  that  mankind  advances!" 

'  *  Mankind  can 't  help  advancing. ' ' 

"It  didn't  help  my  mother  much." 

1  ( The  physical  existence  of  both  your  mother  and 
your  father  is  at  an  end.  Their  spiritual  story  is 
not  yet  complete.  That  is  what  I  believe." 

"Oh!  I  would  like  to  believe  that  so  much." 

"Moreover,  the  ideas  which  they  individually  em- 
bodied will  work  out  to  an  equitable  solution." 

"I  would  like  to  believe  that,  too." 

"Perhaps  that  is  why  you  are  conscious  of  some- 
times feeling  like  an  instrument.  The  forces  are 
working  through  you  and  through  your — 

The  young  man  hesitated,  and  Barbara  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

She  groaned  aloud:  "0  God,  I  wish  I  had  a  son!" 

in. 

GEORGE  was  quite  right.  Love  did  come  afterwards 
to  Barbara  Champneys,  but  it  was  not  through  her 
husband  that  she  plumbed  its  mystic  depths.  It 
came  suddenly,  tempestuously,  and  with  a  radiance 
which  illumined  the  dark  corners  of  her  soul.  It  was 


208  HEARTBEAT 

there  before  she  knew  it,  with  gossamer  wings  flut- 
tering against  her  window  pane  at  dawn.  It  filled 
her  crowded  day  with  a  thousand  tokens  of  rapture. 
For  the  first  time  she  saw  life  as  it  was,  and  as  it 
might  be,  and  as  it  had  never  surely  been  before  to 
anyone.  And  the  magician  holding  the  key  to  this 
enchanted  world  was  the  queer  little  "Frog-face" 
secretary,  whom  George  had  substituted  for  the  dan- 
gerous Mr.  Toller. 

Her  love  was  cradled  in  his  enveloping  sympathy, 
which  quickened  as  it  warmed.  She  flew  to  him  like 
the  bee  to  the  clover.  She  rose  to  him  like  a  drenched 
flower  to  the  rays  of  the  sun.  He  became  an  indis- 
pensable, inevitable  salve  to  her  aching  wounds  of 
moral  duress.  She  listened  for  his  footsteps,  lulled 
her  senses  to  an  ecstasy  of  comfort  in  the  warm  tim- 
bre of  his  voice,  in  the  exaltation  of  his  words.  The 
idyllic  connection  rapidly  followed  the  normal  evolu- 
tion of  "human  and  natural  feelings."  She  real- 
ised this  one  morning  when  he  was  packing  a  des- 
patch case.  He  was  leaning  over  the  table,  vigor- 
ously tucking  a  sheaf  of  contracts  into  the  case. 
The  lines  of  his  mouth  and  nostril  were  accentuated. 
Around  his  eyes  were  tiny  wrinkles  as  he  frowned 
at  the  job  in  hand.  Abruptly  she  thought:  "Good 
God!  I  love  him."  She  wanted  to  laugh,  but  at  the 
same  time  she  thought:  "There  will  never  be  any- 
one else." 

She  felt  no  idle  desire  to  kiss,  as  she  had  in  the 
case  of  the  lord's  son.  It  was  an  overwhelming  de- 
sire to  possess.  She  wanted  Caleb  for  her  very  own, 
always — always.  She  knew  at  that  moment  that  fate 
had  mocked  at  her ;  her  life  with  George  was  a  trav- 
esty. What  was  she  to  do  f 


DIASTOLE  209 

And  Caleb?  The  action  of  packing  the  bag  was 
symbolical.  Every  day  he  determined  to  pack  his 
bag  and  go  away.  He  knew  that  this  was  the  right 
and  proper  indeed — the  only — thing  to  do.  And 
every  day  he  put  it  off.  He  was  an  idealist  whose 
idealism  was  temporarily  suspended  in  face  of  a 
stupendous  temptation.  A  married  man  with  two 
children  making  love  to  his  employer's  wife !  It  was 
in  vain  that  he  persuaded  himself  that  this  state- 
ment gave  a  false  account  of  the  situation,  that  he 
was  not  " making  love  to  her" — he  loved  her,  which 
was  a  different  thing ;  he  was  helping  her,  in  a  way 
he  was  necessary  to  her.  His  conscience  mocked 
him.  Her  image  was  never  for  an  instant  absent 
from  his  thoughts.  He  knew  the  hour  would  come 
when  he  would  have  to  declare  himself  or  die.  This 
was  no  ordinary  intrigue  of  the  senses ;  nevertheless, 
the  senses  insist  upon  playing  their  part  in  such  a 
communion.  He  had  never  attempted  to  kiss  her, 
or  even  to  press  her  hands  unduly  when  they  met 
and  parted.  He  rather  went  to  the  opposite  extreme, 
knowing  that  any  such  action  would  mark  the  ap- 
proach of  crisis.  But  their  eyes  were  not  idle,  and 
the  message  of  eyes  cannot  be  muted  or  misunder- 
stood. For  the  rest,  everything  dovetailed  with  a 
satisfying  perfection  that  appeared  pre-ordained. 
The  playground  of  their  dawning  passion  seemed 
specially  prepared.  Caleb  had  every  reason  to  spend 
several  hours  every  day  in  the  house,  and  George 
was  frequently  not  there.  Barbara  had  every  ex- 
cuse for  visiting  the  young  secretary  in  the  library. 
Was  it  not  natural  for  the  manager's  wife  to  talk 
about  the  affairs  of  the  theatre?  In  the  evening  she 
would  frequently  see  him  again  behind  the  scenes 


210  HEARTBEAT 

or  in  one  of  the  offices.  Frequently  they  would  drive 
down  together  in  her  car. 

Barbara,  moreover,  was  not  unschooled  in  the 
science  of  intrigue ;  her  conscience  was  a  little  dulled 
by  the  hazards  of  her  theatrical  career.  In  every 
instance  it  was  she  who  made  the  advances,  she  who 
was  the  more  obstinate  in  the  acceptance  of  the  es- 
tablished fact.  Blinded  as  she  was  by  the  sudden 
glare  of  this  new  revelation,  she  nevertheless  real- 
ised the  need  for  caution.  So  far  he  had  not  had 
time  to  focus  the  eventualities  and  possibilites  of 
the  position,  but  she  was  instantly  aware  of  its  dan- 
gers and  penalties.  Her  one  absorbing  impulse  was 
\ — not  to  let  it  slip  away,  to  hold  this  precious  visita- 
tion and  make  the  utmost  of  it  against  the  buffets  of 
the  world.  To  this  end  she  quickly  realised  that  cir- 
cumspection would  be  essential.  She  must  be  cau- 
tious and  watchful,  and  not  shatter  the  spectrum  of 
this  heaven-sent  light  by  any  rash  or  foolish  act. 

Caleb  at  first  was  for  doing  the  wise  and  proper 
thing,  but  by  the  more  pervading  force  of  her  re- 
liance upon  his  strength  she  gradually  gained  the 
ascendancy  over  his  resolves. 

"So  long  as  it  doesn't  go  any  further,"  was  the 
rampart  of  defence  upon  which  he  constantly  fell 
back. 

At  the  same  time,  he  knew  in  his  heart  of  hearts 
that  the  day  would  come  when  it  would  be  bound 
to  go  further.  He  adumbrated  visions  of  Platonic 
gestures,  but  the  central  fact  of  passion  was  graven 
with  no  uncertain  markings.  She  was  at  that  time 
-a  beautiful  and  desirable  woman,  in  the  fullness  of 
her  development.  In  her  presence  his  idealism  be- 
came a  thing  of  dusty  theories.  Life  is  a  reality 


DIASTOLE  211 

which  springs  surprises  upon  us  every  day.  Even 
what  we  think  and  believe  and  pin  our  faith  to  to- 
day may  be  on  the  shelf  to-morrow,  accumulating 
the  dust.  Oh,  he  could  argue  himself  out  of  it  well 
enough,  but  what  of  the  morrow?  If  he  should  awake 
to  find  himself  beyond  the  sound  of  her  voice,  away 
from  the  perfume  of  her  hair,  shut  off  for  ever  from 
the  welcome  of  her  eyes,  what  would  brook  the  no- 
blest theories  of  the  noblest  theorists?  Let  Plato 
rage  in  hell,  and  Aristotle,  Luther  and  Marcus  hug 
their  precious  sophistries  in  what  dim  corner  of  the 
universe  the  gods  had  placed  them!  He  was  alive, 
in  Kensington,  with  an  April  sun  warming  the  spring 
buds  in  his  employer's  garden.  And — soon  she  would 
be  there. 

Above  the  passion  which  obsessed  him  his  mind 
brooded  like  a  mother  alarmed  at  a  recalcitrant  child 
but  unable  to  check  its  unexpected  humours.  He 
analysed  and  introspected,  and  wavered  hesitatingly 
before  the  apparition. 

Barbara  had  no  such  misgivings,  or  if  she  had  they 
were  buried  in  a  sub-conscious  plane,  momentarily 
shelved  by  the  urgency  of  more  pressing  affairs. 
She  was  like  an  animal  recognising  an  atavistic  ten- 
dency, and  blindly  consumed  by  an  uncontrollable 
desire  to  preserve  it,  believing  thereby  to  serve  the 
primal  instincts  of  its  type.  What  thinking  she  die 
was  directed  by  her  sense  of  cunning  and  self-prot 
tion  In  her  presence  Caleb  found  himself  a  vasl 
compendious  philosopher,  with  the  heart  of  a  child 
Oh,  it  was  a  joy  to  tell  her  little  things,  to  watch 
the  eager  parting  of  her  lips,  the  eyes  hungrily  ab- 
sorbing his  most  trivial  impression.  Banalities  be- 
came important,  generalisations  a  deliciou8  adven- 


212  .          HEARTBEAT 

ture,  the  hard  facts  of  daily  experience  a  tender 
chronicle  of  mutual  regard.  And  then  the  confi- 
dences which  swung  backwards  and  forwards — 
whither  did  they  expect  them  to  lead? 

The  crisis  came  in  a  very  commonplace  way.  One 
evening,  after  tea,  she  went  into  the  library.  She 
was  dressed  for  going  out.  Caleb  had  his  back  to 
her  and  he  pretended  to  be  absorbed  in  his  work. 
She  crept  up  on  tip  toe  and  in  a  sudden  whim  put 
her  arms  round  his  head  and  her  hands  over  his 
eyes.  Then  she  laughed,  and  glanced  at  the  desk. 
On  it  were  books  and  papers  connected  with  the 
theatre,  but  in  one  corner  was  an  open  copy  of 
Browning.  She  exclaimed: 

1 '  Oh !  so  this  is  the  way  you  pretend  to  do  your 
work!  The  sack  for  you,  Mr.  Thirkettle." 

The  boy  seized  her  two  hands  firmly  and  pulled 
them  down  upon  his  breast ;  but  he  did  not  release 
them.  By  this  action  her  cheek  was  very  near  his 
own.  He  replied: 

"Please,  madame,  I  was  only  reading  about  you." 

What  was  he  reading  about  her?  The  question 
was  not  immediately  answered,  for  their  cheeks 
touched.  He  felt  her  hair  tickling  his  temples,  and 
it  was  more  than  he  could  endure.  He  swung  round 
on  his  seat,  put  his  right  arm  round  her  neck,  and 
pulled  her  face  to  his.  He  kissed  her  cheek,  and 
mouth,  and  lips,  and  she  did  not  protest.  When  it 
was  done  they  both  laughed  self-consciously.  It  was 
she  who  spoke  first. 

"What  were  you  reading  about  me?" 

He  found  it  necessary  to  kiss  her  again  in  a  rather 
more  prolonged  manner  before  he  replied : 

"You  shall  read  it  yourself." 


DIASTOLE  213 

And  he  handed  her  the  book  opened  at  "Porphy- 
ria's  Lover." 

Neither  made  any  reference  to  the  sudden  ex- 
pression of  passion.  Barbara  took  the  book  away 
and  went  and  sat  in  a  corner  seat.  She  did  not  look 
up  until  she  had  finished  the  poem.  Then  she  said : 

"What  an  extraordinary  poem?  Why  does  it 
make  you  think  of  me!" 

Caleb  stood  up  and  walked  towards  her  stealthily. 
He  sat  down  by  her  side  and  took  her  hand. 

"I  don't  know.  I  always  think  of  you  as  Porphy- 
ria." 

"What  does  it  really  mean,  Caleb!  Why  does 
the  man  strangle  her!" 

"For  the  same  reason  that  I  want  to  strangle 
you. ' ' 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  do  that.  It  would  seem  so- 
so  ungrateful,  after  we  had  been  such  good  friends. 
Besides,  I  should  hate  it.  I  don't  want  to  be  stran- 
gled. No,  no,  not  again— 

She  darted  away  from  him  with  the  book  in  her 
hand.  When  some  distance  away  she  read  aloud  the 
last  two  lines : 

And  all  night  lonf?  we  have  not  stirred, 
And  yet  God  has  not  said  a  word. 

"I  like  that.    It's  so— graphic,  isn't  it.    Of  course 
God  never  does  say  a  word.    He  wouldn't  have  said 
a  word,  whether  the  man  strangled  her  or  not.    Do 
you  know  what  God  does,  Caleb?    He  sends  mes- 
sages to  our  door  by  a  messenger,  and  the  mess 
ger  hands  them  in  and  says,  'There  is  no  answei 
There  never  in  an  answer  to  God." 

There  were  tears,  born  of  a  fierce  excitement  on 
the  brink  of  her  eyes.  Suddenly  she  thrust  out  1 


214  HEARTBEAT 

arms  and  said  in  a  changed  voice :  "What  are  we  go- 
ing to  do  about  this  I" 

Caleb  sat  there  staring  at  his  feet.  He  was 
ashamed,  perplexed  and  profoundly  stirred. 

"It's  got  to  be  faced,"  he  answered,  not  looking 
up.  "It's  been  coming  on  so  long.  I'm  a  cad,  Bar- 
bara— a  cad,  an  utter  cad.  I  must  go  away. ' ' 

Like  a  flash  she  was  upon  him,  her  arms  round  his 
neck,  her  lips  pressed  to  his. 

"No,  no,  you  can't  do  that.  I  want  you,  Caleb. 
I  love  you. ' ' 

From  that  moment  they  became  lovers,  lovers 
without  a  plan  or  a  policy,  loving  secretly  and  fur- 
tively, without  shame  or  misgiving,  content  that  for 
a  few  hours  each  day  the  world  rewarded  them  with 
the  light  of  each  other's  presence. 

IV. 

THE  Frolics  still  played  to  packed  houses.  At  that 
time  a  revue  was  being  done  called  "The  Baker's 
Dozen,"  the  company  having  now  swelled  to  eleven 
people.  The  judicious  sometimes  murmured  that 
"George  Champneys  and  his  company  are  nothing 
like  they  used  to  be  in  the  old  days,  when  they  did 
the  whole  show  in  pierrot  dress  and  practically  no 
properties  or  change  or  raiment,"  but  George  knew 
the  taste  of  the  groundlings,  and  he  was  out  to  please 
them.  He  spent  thousands  of  pounds  on  elaborate 
sets,  properties,  illusions,  and  tricks  of  lighting. 
The  performance  more  closely  resembled  a  panto- 
mime than  an  entertainment  by  a  pierrot  troupe. 
Rosie  Ventnor  had  gone,  and  her  place  was  now 
taken  by  the  famous  May  Mendelssohn.  In  other 


DIASTOLE  215 

respects  the  cast  had  also  been  strengthened  But 
as  it  happened,  Barbara  made  an  unexpected  hit 
with  an  Apache  dance,  which  she  danced  with  an 
actor  named  Leonard  Greer.  The  scene  was  a  dingy 
attic  with  weird  lighting  effects,  and  the  music, 
which  had  a  haunting  lilt,  was  by  an  Austrian  named 
bzolt.  Greer  was  an  excellent  'dancer,  and  there  was 
something  about  the  combination  which  excited  Bar- 
bara indescribably.  With  a  red  scarf  round  her 
head  and  a  loose  black  ulster  over  her  pierrette 
frock,  she  threw  herself  into  the  interpretation  of  the 
dance  with  great  abandon.  The  actions  were  ex- 
tremely violent  and  exhausting  to  the  performers, 
Greer  in  the  finale  picking  her  up  and  throwing  her 
across  his  shoulders ;  but  the  dance  always  brought 
down  the  house,  and  had  to  be  repeated. 

"What  has  happened  to  Fancy?"  queried  the 
other  members  of  the  company.  ' '  She  seems  to  have 
found  herself." 

George  was  frankly  delighted  and  proud.  He 
went  about  saying  to  everyone : 

"I  say,  have  you  seen  Fancy's  dance?" 

Even  the  Press  bestowed  a  measure  of  praise  upon 
the  performance,  and  "Day  by  Day"  said:  "In  the 
Apache  dance  in  the  last  act  Miss  Fancy  Telling  and 
Mr.  Leonard  Greer  proved  themselves  artistes  con- 
siderably above  the  average  British  terpsichorean 
standard."  Could  enthusiasm  go  further?  To 
Caleb  her  explanation  was  this : 

"When  I  do  that  dance  I  think  of  Porphyria. 
She  was  like  that.  She  had  a  dolt  of  a  husband,  and 
she  got  fed  up.  One  night  she  just  went  mad.  It 
was  music  or  something  which  got  her.  Music's  a 
queer  thing,  the  way  it  makes  you  sometimes  feel 


216  HEARTBEAT 

you  are  yourself,  only  seventeen  times  more  so. 
You  see,  she  was  very  keen  on  that  poor,  lonely  man 
and  his  'cheerless  grate.'  She  went  to  a  dance  and 
danced  like  mad,  but  she  couldn't  get  the  thought 
of  him  out  of  her  head.  And  so,  suddenly,  late  at 
night,  she  just  sneaked  out  when  no  one  was  look- 
ing— her  husband  was  probably  having  a  whisky  and 
soda  in  the  smoke-room — she  rushed  through  the 
rain  and  the  sullen  wind  to  the  poet's  house,  where 
he  lived  all  alone.  She  knew  it  was  an  awful  thing 
to  do.  She  burnt  her  boats,  you  see.  But  it  was 
worth  while,  perhaps." 

"Perhaps  it  was,"  replied  Caleb.  "It  may  be  we 
are  only  to  take  the  strangling  as  a  symbol,  suffo- 
cated by  popular  disapproval,  eh?  All  the  same,  I 
can't  bring  myself  to  like  your  Apache  dance." 

"Oh,  but  why,  Caleb?" 

"I  don't  know.  It's  somehow  you,  and  yet,  as 
you  say,  seventeen  times  yourself.  It's  the  sa- 
vagest  thing  I've  ever  seen." 

They  were  in  the  library  at  the  time,  and  she  went 
up  to  him  and  pretended  to  bite  the  lobe  of  his 
ear. 

"I  am  a  savage,"  she  retorted. 

He  pulled  her  down  on  to  his  knee  and  kissed  her. 

"This  is  getting  horribly  serious,  darling,"  he 
groaned.  "What  are  we  going  to  do?" 

"Be  circumspect,"  she  replied,  snuggling  her 
cheek  against  his. 

"This  is  a  good  demonstration  of  it.  Anyone 
might  come  in  at  that  door  at  any  moment." 

"George  is  in  town.  There  is  no  one  else  likely 
to." 


DIASTOLE  217 

"It's  the  unlikely  thing  one  has  to  watch.  I  love 
you  terribly." 

Barbara  left  him  and  went  to  the  window  In  the 
little  garden  clumps  of  panises  and  tulips  were  rev- 
3llmg  m  the  April  sunshine,  a  lilac  bush  was  a-bud 
Suddenly  she  turned  to  him  and  said : 

"Where  are  your  rooms?" 

"In  the  Fulham  Road." 

"Why  shouldn't  we  go  there?" 

"My  dear,  what  were  you  saying  about  circum- 
spection?" 

"There's  no  harm  in  my  calling  on  you  at  your 
rooms,  is  there?" 

"I  have  a  landlady." 

"Well,  what  about  it?  She  wouldn't  think  I'd 
come  to  murder  you,  would  she?" 

"No— no,  I  suppose  she  wouldn't,  We  might  be 
seen  going  in.  .You're  famous,  you  know,  Fancy 
Telling." 

"Nobody  lives  in  the  Fulham  Road." 

"All  right,  my  dowager  duchess.  You'd  be 
shocked,  though.  It 's  an  awful  little  hole. ' ' 

"I'd  be  happier  there  with  you,  Caleb  than  in 
any  dowager  duke's  mansion." 

"You  darling!" 

And  so,  the  following  day  Barbara  Champneys 
called  on  Caleb  Thirkettle  at  his  rooms  in  the  Ful- 
ham Road,  and  no  one  saw  them  go  in,  and  no  one 
saw  them  come  out;  neither  did  anyone  know  what 
transpired  in  the  rooms.  They  were  dingy.  There 
was  a  small  sitting-room,  overcrowded  with  heavy 
mid- Victorian  furniture,  and  the  room  connected  by 
a  folding-door  with  a  bedroom  slightly  larger. 


218  HEARTBEAT 

V. 

IN  talking  of  " spiritual  Nemesis"  Caleb  soon  be- 
came aware  that  he  was  submitting  himself  to  the 
position  of  being  hoist  of  his  own  petard.  His  con- 
science was  on  the  rack.  Every  day  he  became  more 
deeply  in  love  with  her,  and  the  more  he  loved  her 
the  more  troubled  he  became.  He  was  a  cad  to 
George,  a  cad  to  his  wife,  and  an  unspeakable  cad  to 
his  two  young  girls.  Somehow  the  latter  case  af- 
fected him  most.  He  had  no  particular  regard  for 
George,  not  a  great  deal  for  his  wife ;  but  the  chil- 
dren— who  were  at  present  in  the  charge  of  a  sister- 
in-law — were  dependent  upon  him  and  his  good 
name.  Moreover  they  adored  him,  and  although 
they  were  too  young  to  understand  any  marital  com- 
plication, they  were  old  enough  to  hug  the  illusion 
of  a  devoted  mummy  and  daddy.  If  he  left  Gracie 
in  the  lurch  it  would  bring  unutterable  distress  upon 
all  three.  The  grim  question  of  money  had  also  to 
be  considered.  Barbara  had  no  private  means,  and 
he  was  entirely  dependent  upon  his  salary.  If  they 
ran  away  he  might  find  it  very  difficult  to  get  an- 
other situation,  and  Barbara  had  been  accustomed 
all  her  Ife  to  every  luxury  and  refinement.  He  could 
not  possibly  desert  the  children,  or  leave  Gracie  to 
keep  them. 

The  position  was  impossible.  The  love  which 
had  come  to  them  both  at  last,  ablaze  with  the  fine 
flowers  of  idealism  and  true  passion,  could  never  be 
anything  other  than  a  sordid  intrigue.  In  this  re- 
spect the  attitude  of  Barbara  surprised  him.  She 
gave  no  evidence  of  the  slightest  shame  or  remorse. 
She  was  a  complete  intriguer.  She  brought  to  bear 


DIASTOLE  219 

in  the  matter  a  degree  of  cunning  which  astounded 
him.  Down  at  the  theatre  she  was  just  friendly  and 
a  little  formal.  In  the  house,  when  others  were  about, 
it  was  the  same.  But  when  they  were  alone — he 
could  have  verified  Isabel's  comment: 

"You're  a  passionate  little  devil.  A  man  could 
have  a  good  time  with  you." 

They  ranged  through  moods  of  playfulness  and 
passionate  disputations.  Although  her  mind  was 
less  tutored  than  his,  he  found  her  easy  and  com- 
panionable to  talk  to,  probably  because  she  had 
tasted  the  stuff  we  call  real  life.  She  made  shrewd 
and  surprising  conclusions,  and  would  sometimes 
jump  an  obstacle  which  baffled  him  by  the  aid  of  her 
intuitions.  In  reverting  to  the  culpability  of  their 
unholy  liaison,  she  always  adhered  to  the  primitive 
excuse. 

"We're  not  doing  anyone  any  harm.  It's  our  af- 
fair. Something  tells  me  that  love  like  ours  can't  be 
wicked." 

Caleb  found  it  difficult  to  answer  this  satisfac- 
torily, particularly  as  the  solution  would  involve  the 
honour  and  the  character  of  Barbara  herself.  And 
so  he  compromised,  and  the  summer  months  slipped 
by.  Every  day  he  came  to  the  house,  and  two  or 
three  times  a  week  she  visited  him  at  his  rooms. 
Sometimes  they  would  take  the  car  and  dash  down 
into  the  country,  for  a  few  hours'  ramble  over  the 
Surrey  hills.  And  they  would  sit  in  the  bracken,  and 
talk  of  God,  and  life,  and  poets,  and  the  mystery  of 
sex,  nations,  personality,  destiny,  restaurants,  stage- 
chatter,  books,  love  and  so  back  to  God  again.  And 
except  for  restaurant  and  stage-chatter,  Barbara 
appeared  not  to  have  talked  of  these  things  before. 


220  HEARTBEAT 

She  was  a  spiritual  opportunist,  making  a  religion 
of  her  own  as  she  went  along.  The  more  she  yielded 
'to  the  claims  of  this  illicit  passion,  the  more  alert 
did  she  appear  to  religious  suggestion.  She  wanted 
to  know  all  about  God,  and  the  why  and  wherefore 
of  existence,  and  in  this  regard  Caleb  was  as  much 
an  experimenter  as  herself,  except  that  he  had  cov- 
ered more  ground,  j  He  described  himself  as  an 
agnostic,  with  a  sneaking  regard  for  theosophy  and 
a  confirmed  belief  in  reincarnation.  When  she  asked 
him  the  value  of  reincarnation,  he  replied : 

"  Because  it  confirms  my  faith  in  there  being  no 
such  thing  as  retrogression.  If  you  believe  in  phys- 
cal  evolution,  you  must  believe  in  spiritual  evolution. 
Everything  is  emerging — going  forward." 

"But,"  said  Barbara,  "how  about  when  you  see 
a  man  start  decently  and  then  go  to  pot?" 

"He  has  emerged  from  a  lower  type  still.  The 
fact  that  he  started  life  decently  may  show  that  he 
is  improving.  In  the  next  reincarnation  he  may  hold 
as  a  decent  chap  to  the  end. ' ' 

Barbara  shook  her  head.  She  was  not  enamoured 
of  reincarnation. 

"It  seems  to  wipe  out  such  a  thing  as  heredity, 
for  instance." 

"Wouldn't  you  have  it  wiped  out?"  quickly  re- 
torted Caleb.  "We  are  too  apt  to  look  at  things  in 
terms  of  duality,  whereas  everything  is  a  trinity." 

"How  do  you  mean?" 

"There  is  action  and  reaction,  and  then  the  spirit 
it  evokes.  If  you  study  mathematics,  you  find  that 
everything  is  in  threes." 

"The  Father,  the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost." 

"Precisely.    You  cannot  talk  of  the  Father  with- 


DIASTOLE  221 

out  first  postulating  the  Son,  and  so  the  Spirit  is 
produced." 

"Now,  come  down  to  earth,  Caleb  darling  As- 
suming that  my  father  treated  my  mother  badly, 
are  not  his  sins  visited  upon  me?" 

"Nothing  is  visited  upon  you  except  physical  at- 
tributes, and  even  these  only  by  suggestion  You 
are  an  independent  spirit,  with  an  independent  ex- 
istence to  work  out. ' ' 

"That's  rather  jolly,  but  it  sounds  so  lonely.  Na- 
ture seems  beastly  cruel." 

"Nature  is,  but  nature  and  God  are  not  the  same 
thing.  God  is  rather  a  reaction  against  nature.  Na- 
ture is  a  kind  of  wild  profligate.  It  is  picking  up 
the  pieces  and  putting  them  in  order  which  is  God." 

VI. 

IN  those  days  she  was  studiously  charming  to 
George.  The  large  comedian  had  arrived  at  a  posi- 
tion of  static  security  at  the  top  of  the  tree,  both 
professionally  and  socially.  His  popularity  had 
never  been  greater,  his  wealth  more  soundly  in- 
vested, his  home  life  more  comfortable  and  satisfy- 
ing. The  staff  had  settled  down,  and  his  dear  Fancy 
was  always  there  in  the  niche  he  had  designed  for 
her.  He  had  only  to  whistle  and  lo!  she  answered 
his  bidding.  For  the  rest,  his  days  were  filled  with 
pleasant  activities,  in  which  universal  adulation  of 
himself  played  a  conspicuous  part.  He  sometimes 
drank  a  little  more  whisky  than  was  wise  for  him, 
and  in  the  morning  his  pulmonary  organs  were  in- 
variably congested  and  wheezy;  but  for  the  most 
part  his  health  remained  good.  Moreover,  his  affec- 


222  HEARTBEAT 

tion  for  Fancy  increased.  He  observed  that  during 
the  last  month  or  so  she  had  been  much  more  tract- 
able and  friendly,  much  less  touchy,  and — less  un- 
gettable;  he  was  proud,  too,  of  the  success  she  had 
made  with  the  Apache  dance.  George  had  never 
found  her  so  adorable.  He  cherished  a  supreme  hope 
that  perhaps,  after  all,  his  Fancy  was  going  to  fall 
in  love  with  him.  As  to  any  suspicion  concerning 
herself  and  Caleb,  he  never  gave  the  matter  a  sec- 
ond's consideration.  Banstead  said  to  him  one  night 
in  the  dressing-room : 

"I  say,  old  boy,  that  young  Thirkettle's  sweet  on 
your  wife. '  ' 

Not  even  then  did  he  feel  the  slightest  apprehen- 
sion. He  laughed  and  said : 

"Oh,  is  that  so!     I    hadn't    noticed    it.    Poor 
Fancy!" 

He  did  not  even  enquire  upon  what  Banstead 
based  his  suspicion,  but  the  producer — not  without 
reasons  of  his  own — followed  it  up. 

"You've  only  got  to  watch  his  face  when  he's 
looking  at  her.  It's  my  business  to  read  faces." 

George  smiled  indulgently  and  dismissed  the  mat- 
ter from  his  mind.  Certainly,  later  in  the  evening, 
he  did  detect  Caleb  regarding  his  wife  with  an  ador- 
ing, dog-like  expression.  Instantly  he  glanced  at 
Barbara.  Her  face  was  tranquil,  almost  cold  and 
expressionless. 

"Poor  old  Thirk!"  he  reflected,  and  prepared  for 
his  cue.  It  was  nothing.  These  little  wayside  in- 
fatuations were  common  to  the  whole  order  of  his 
experience.  "Why,  even  he — yes,  even  since  he  was 
married — happily  married — he  occasionally.  .  .  . 
It  meant  nothing,  nothing  at  all — unless  the  attrac- 


DIASTOLE  223 

tion  was  reciprocated  to  the  full.  And  look  at  Bar- 
bara! Not  much  chance  of  that.  In  three  minutes' 
time  he  was  singing : 

11  Oh,  my!    Hold  me  down! 

My  wife's  gone  away  till  Monday!" 

In  spite  of  Barbara's  extreme  circumspection  and 
George's  obtuseness,  the  lovers  did  not,  however, 
escape  the  breath  of  scandal.  It  would  have  been  a 
miracle  if  they  had.  Annette  had  her  shrewd  sus- 
picions, and  one  of  the  parlour  maids  had  entered 
the  library  at  an  unfortunate  moment.  And  the  long 
arm  of  coincidence  was  stretched  forth  by  the  call 
boy's  aunt,  who  lived  a  little  further  down  the  Ful- 
ham  Road,  and  on  two  occasions  saw  Caleb  and  Bar- 
bara •coming  out,  recognising  Miss  Telling  at  once 
through  the  good  fortune  of  having,  on  occasions, 
had  free  seats  given  her.  Thus  was  Barbara's  con- 
tention that  "no  one  lived  in  the  Fulham  Road" 
completely  discountenanced.  The  call  boy's  aunt 
told  the  call  boy,  who  told  one  of  the  stage  hands, 
who  passed  it  on  to  the  assistant  stage  manager. 
From  there  the  story  passed  by  easy  stages  to  the 
whole  company,  increasing  a  little  in  force  at  every 
repetition.  Everybody  began  to  know  that  there  was 
an  affair  going  on  between  Fancy  Telling  and  the 
Chief's  secretary;  everybody  except  George.  You 
have  to  be  on  very  intimate  terms  with  a  man  to 
hint  to  him  that  his  wife  is  unfaithful.  No  one  was 
in  this  position  except  Banstead,  who  foresaw  the 
possibilities  of  a  little  sexual  blackmail.  His  at- 
tempts in  this  direction  did  not,  however,  meet  with 
the  success  he  anticipated.  He  ensnared  her  into 


224  HEARTBEAT 

one  of  the  offices  by  a  subterfuge,  and  then  tried  to 
put  across  the  strong,  masterful  stuff  which  had 
almost  succeeded  before.  But  on  this  occasion  he 
received  a  violent  slap  on  the  mouth.  It  hurt  him, 
and  he  winced.  Drawing  back,  he  growled : 

''Hold  on,  you  little  wildcat!  I  suppose  you  think 
it  isn't  known  about  you  and  young  Thirkettel." 

Barbara  was  staggered.  She  certainly  had  no 
suspicion  that  it  was  known.  She  turned  pale,  and 
blurted  out : 

"What  are  you  talking  about?" 
Banstead  saw  that  the  blow  had  gone  home.    He 
shifted  his  ground  a  little. 

"Come,  be  decent.  I  have  no  wish  to  tell  your 
husband." 

The  implied  threat  stung  her  to  a  fury. 
"Tell  and  be  damned  to  you!"  she  snapped,  and 
she  raised  her  hands  like  a  kitten's  claws,  ready  to 
strike.  Her  eyes  blazed.  She  strode  with  tense  de- 
liberation towards  the  door.  Gripping  the  handle 
she  hissed  at  him : 

"Get  out  of  the  theatre,  you  dirty  cad!" 
When  she  had  gone  Banstead  whistled. 
"Didn't  come  off,  old  boy,"  he  said  to  himself. 
He  was  not,  however,  unduly  perturbed.  She  had  no 
authority  to  turn  him  out  of  the  theatre,  and  he 
knew  that  she  would  never  report  the  matter  to 
George.  If  she  started  stirring  up  mud  of  that  de- 
scription, even  George  might  become  suspicious.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  had  warned  his  Chief,  and  he 
could  go  no  further.  There  was  no  proof,  and 
George  would  only  resent  these  insinuations.  For 
the  moment  it  might  be  considered  a  drawn  battle. 
He  had  frightened  her,  and  hurt  her  feelings;  but 


DIASTOLE  225 

she  had  given  him  a  jar  to  his  vanity  and  a  swollen 
lip. 

From  that  day  greater  circumspection  than  ever 
was  employed;  on  the  other  hand,  they  were  both 
under  a  closer  scrutiny.  At  the  theatre  they  avoided 
each  other  entirely,  but  in  the  house  they  felt  fairly 
free  when  George  was  out,  but  a  little  nervy  of 
sounds  and  knocks.  Not  having  the  personal  ac- 
quaintance of  the  call  boy's  aunt,  and  not  being 
aware  that  the  first  rumour  came  from  that  direc- 
tion, they  were  less  circumspect  regarding  the  visits 
to  the  Fulham  Road.  Once  there,  they  felt  per- 
fectly safe  and  free.  George  did  not  even  know  the 
address,  and  Caleb's  wife  was  on  a  summer  tour 
in  the  North.  Love  laughs  at  locksmiths  and  even 
landladies,  and  is  seldom  down-hearted  at  anything 
except  deliberate  frustration.  Barbara  did  not  tell 
Caleb  about  Banstead,  but  she  hinted  that  there  were 
rumours  going  about,  and  they  must  be  more  careful. 
Caleb  by  this  time  had  subdued  his  moral  misgiv- 
ings. In  the  light  of  his  mistress'  eyes  all  was  right 
with  the  world.  The  position  was  tragic  but  inevi- 
table. He  would  get  on,  and  by  some  means  or  other 
make  money,  and  then  they  would  run  away.  They 
would  both  get  divorced,  and  then  one  day  he  would 
be  the  lawful  husband  of  his  darling  Barbara.  But 
of  course  he  would  always  continue  to  keep  the  two 
children,  and  would  compensate  Gracie  in  some  way 
or  the  other.  Gracie  was  warm-hearted  but  shallow- 
minded.  She  would  soon  adapt  herself  to  the  new 
conditions— probably  marry  again.  Oh !  it  would  be 
all  right  in  the  end.  If  only  one  were  not  eternally 
haunted  by — the  element  of  crisis. 

Some  shadow  of  it  came  to  Barbara  one  wet  even- 


226  HEARTBEAT 

ing  in  July.  It  was  Sunday,  and  she  had  been  forced 
to  spend  the  evening  at  home,  as  George  wanted  her 
to  help  entertain  a  party  of  his  friends.  They  had 
left  early,  as  they  came  from  a  distance. 

When  they  had  gone  she  went  up  to  her  dressing- 
room  and  changed  into  a  peignoir.  She  was  feeling 
tired,  and  a  little  anxious.  She  looked  at  herself  in 
the  mirror,  and  noted  the  pallor  of  her  cheeks  and 
the  little  rings  beneath  her  eyes.  For  some  reason 
or  other,  she  put  some  lip-salve  on  her  lips,  sighed 
and  then  removed  it.  She  walked  across  the  room 
and  rang  for  Annette.  When  the  French  maid  ar- 
rived she  said : 

"Annette,  will  you  go  and  ask  the  master  if  he 
will  come  and  see  me  for  a  minute?  I'm  going  to 
bed.  I'm  rather  tired." 

"Parfaitement,  madame." 

The  mirror  had  a  curious  attraction  for  her.  She 
turned  her  face  this  way  and  that,  and  sighed  again. 
"I  shall  have  to  tell  him.  I  might  as  well  get  it 
over." 

George  came  into  the  room,  puffily  solicitous. 

"Well,  old  girl?" 

"George,  I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  to  cut  that 
Apache  dance." 

"All  right,  old  girl;  as  you  like.  It's  been  going 
some  time.  Weather  too  hot  for  you?" 

"It 'snot  that." 

"What  is  it,  then,  dear?" 

"I'm  going  to  have  a  child." 

The  earth  rocked  under  the  clamour  of  this  calm, 
terrific  statement.  She  had  done  it,  and  there  was 
nothing  to  dread  except  the  humidity  of  his  accept- 
ance. She  saw  his  large,  somnolent  face  suddenly 


DIASTOLE  227 

alive  with  the  signs  of  startled  vitality.  It  shook 
like  a  pink  blanc-mange.  His  eyes  expressed  amaze- 
ment, fear,  joy,  and— worst  of  all— adoraton.  Then 
then  seemed  to  melt  and  die  away,  as  he  murmured : 

"Fancy— darling— thank  God!" 

The  fool!  He  was  blubbering — the  worst  thing 
that  could  have  happened.  A  big  man  blubbing  and 
blubbering  like  a  child !  What  did  he  want  to  blub 
for?  What  had  he  got  to  thank  God  for!  Who  was 
God?  What  was  God?  Caleb  had  said  that  it  was 
picking  up  the  pieces  and  putting  them  in  order. 
Nature  was  a  profligate.  Quite  true.  Oh,  but  she 
couldn't  stand  this.  He  was  advancing  upon  her, 
holding  her  in  his  arms.  His  tears  were  wetting 
his  cheeks.  He  was  murmuring: 

"  Fancy  darling,  this  will  make  all  the  difference. 
We  shall  be  so  happy.  You  shall  come  out  of  the  bill 
and  rest.  You  shall  have  the  best  of  everything: 
nurses,  specialists — a  lovely  place  to  go  to — every- 
thing; nothing  shall  be  spared." 

She  choked  hoarsely : 

"I  shall  be  all  right.    I  don't  want  all  that." 

Everything  he  did  made  it  more  difficult.  His 
sentimentality  would  kill  her,  and  she  couldn't  afford 
to  die— yet.  So  difficult  to  keep  one's  head.  She 
assumed  uncontrollable  fatigue  and  eased  away  from 
him. 

"I  must  go  to  bed  now." 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,  of  course,  of  course.  I  will  help 
you;  lean  on  me — dear  old  girl." 

Would  it  never  be  possible  to  rid  herself  of  his 
protestations,  all  this  while,  all  these  months  to 
come?  In  bed  she  hung  limply,  and  turned  away, 
was   only  her  demand  for  Annette  which   finally 


228  HEARTBEAT 

brought  about  his  departure.  When  he  had  gone 
she  set  her  teeth  and  said:  "I  will  not  cry.  I  hate 
him.  Why  did  he  want  to  go  on  like  that?" 

Sternly  she  thought  of  Caleb,  and  of  their  love — 
of  the  days  to  come.  But  she  was  tired,  very,  very 
tired,  and  a  little  unstrung.  George  had  looked  so 
big,  and  helpless,  and  babyish,  and  appealing,  stand- 
ing there,  so  pathetic  and  pitiable.  Oh,  it  was  cruel, 
horribly  cruel ;  and  she  did  not  want  to  be  cruel,  not 
even  to  George.  Suddenly  the  tears  came,  whipped 
into  being  by  the  torture  of  her  husband's  image. 

VII. 

THE  appearances  are  always  with  us,  the  riot  and 
the  record  of  chronicled  events,  the  unctuous  pro- 
nunciamenti  of  ordered  authority,  the  awards  and 
penalties  of  standardised  codes,  honours  for  the 
worthy  and  the  lash  for  the  unsuccessful,  virtue  and 
vice  clothed  in  fustian,  strutting  before  an  audience 
hidden  by  a  glare  of  light,  the  big  band  playing,  with 
the  crash  of  cymbal  and  the  beat  of  drum. 

But  real  life  moves  onwards  to  a  muffled  beat, 
paying  little  heed  to  the  appearances.  Action  and 
reaction  and  the  spirit  evoked,  its  roots  buried  deep 
in  the  illusion  of  time.  The  child  unborn  is  building 
the  temple  which  the  workmen  have  deserted.  The 
tears  which  a  woman  shed  long  ago  are  watering  the 
flowers  of  to-morrow's  celebration.  It  is  the  tyrant 
who  forges  the  chains  of  freedom;  the  outcast  who 
instructs  us  in  the  precise  interpretation  of  civic 
laws.  Memory,  like  a  withered  leaf,  is  lightly  blown 
away ;  but  through  the  twisted  years  the  horror  and 
the  ecstasy  come  tumbling  upon  us,  and  we  know 


DIASTOLE  229 

them  as  our  own.  That  life  we  call  our  own  is  not  a 
chronicle  of  events,  but  an  interaction  of  conflicting 
periods.  The  metallic  records  of  a  king  are  as  brit- 
tle and  unreal  as  the  coloured  baubles  on  a  Christ- 
mas tree.  The  nearer  we  get  to  life,  more  muted 
become  the  strings,  more  elusive  the  word  upon  the 
tablet.  All  the  tenderness  and  sweetness  is  a  herit- 
age we  pass  along;  all  the  bitterness  and  anguish  is 
a  mortgage  upon  our  spiritual  estate.  We  share  it 
with  these  others  stretching  out  their  hands  to  us 
through  the  darkness.  The  profligacy  of  nature  is 
so  great  that  its  very  abundance  would  defeat  its 
own  ends,  but  for  the  fact  that  there  is  a  force  al- 
ways at  work  checking  it,  demanding  more  sharply 
defined  contours  to  the  specimens  evolved,  more 
closely  woven  fibre  to  the  material  produced.  And 
this  force  demands  not  merely  growth  but  a  definite- 
ness  of  form,  with  crisis  and  accent;  as  though  it 
were  obeying  a  Draconic  law  that  ordains  all  things 
to  be  made  in  the  image  of  something,  or  in  a  reflec- 
ton  of  that  image.  Our  consciousness  pivots  upon 
the  recognition  of  our  propinquity  to  the  form  we 
are  ordained  to  complete.  A  buffalo  is  not  conscious 
of  the  clumsiness  of  its  form,  nor  does  its  conscience 
smart  when  it  has  stolen  a  choice  root  from  a  weaker 
brother.  Man,  being  nearer  to  a  more  perfected 
form,  is  conscious  of  it.  He  sees  himself,  and  the 
nearness  and  the  littleness  of  his  perfections.  More- 
over, he  sees  above  him  and  beyond  him,  the  solidity 
of  his  development,  with  its  accents  and  crises. 

The  crisis  which  came  to  Barbara  was  the  inevi- 
tablechisel-mark  of  the  sculptor  who  had  been  pre- 
paring his  form  for  just  this  accent.  That  she  had 
contributed  to  its  fashioning  goes  without  saying, 


230  HEARTBEAT 

but  that  it  was  only  a  contributon  who  shall  deny? 
The  conception  of  absolute  free-will  is  the  pleasant 
illusion  of  moral  policemen.  It  is  the  negation  of 
man's  place  in  evolution.  It  dismisses  all  complexes 
and  physical  reactions.  The  appearances  demand  it, 
but  the  heart  denies  it;  and  the  human  heart  has 
always  been  surer  in  its  touch  than  the  human  brain. 
In  short,  man  is  not  yet  far  enough  advanced  to 
have  free-will. 

Barbara 'Nearly  life  had  been  an  obscure  passage 
of  inhibitions,  with  their  violent  reactions.  Her  nat- 
ural impulses  had  been  thwarted,  less  by  decrees  than 
by  implications  which  bewildered  her.  From  the 
very  first  she  was  conscious  of  being  spiritually 
starved,  of  having  to  build  her  own  world  furtively, 
and  without  assistance.  No  one  told  her  anything. 
The  discovery  of  the  truth  about  her  mother  poig- 
nantly wounded  her.  She  turned  to  the  world  with 
open  arms,  asking  for  pity.  It  seemed  to  her  the 
moment  for  pity ;  but  the  world  shrugged  its  shoul- 
ders and  labelled  her  a  social  pariah.  Then  she  be- 
came a  little  heady  and  reckless.  The  gay  allure- 
ments of  the  theatrical  world,  which  had  been  her 
mother's,  attracted  her.  Even  here  disillusionment 
dogged  her  footsteps.  She  learnt  that  everything 
has  its  price,  even  beauty.  She  became  embittered 
after  that,  but  still  hungry  for  she  knew  not  what — 
some  inner  satisfaction,  perhaps.  Then  one  day  she 
met  George.  She  liked  him,  and  he  was  rich.  In- 
experienced in  the  values  of  love,  she  plunged  into 
the  desperate  experiment.  Had  he  not  promised  to 
teach  her  all  there  was  to  know  of  love?  She  real- 
ised with  him  only  what  love  might  be.  And  she 
realised  that  it  not  only  might  but  must  be  the  most 


DIASTOLE  231 

wonderful  thing  in  the  world,  and  she  had  missed  it! 
Missed  it,  and  cut  off  her  chances  forever! 

She  was  young,  and  she  did  not  utterly  despair; 
but  she  became  less  fine.  Pleasant  compensations 
were  easily  to  hand,  and  the  years  drifted  on.  It  was 
always  her  heart  which  cried  out  for  finer  things; 
her  brain  which  said : 

" Don't  be  a  fool.    Have  a  good  time." 

She  observed  George  becoming  more  and  more 
material,  more  and  more  repulsive.  There  were 
times  when  it  was  almost  impossible  not  to  express 
her  physical  loathing  of  his  contact.  Beyond  that, 
he  realised  that  he  was  an  empty  husk.  His  ideas 
were  centred  on  himself,  his  theatre,  his  money,  his 
wife.  She  saw  her  life  in  perspective,  its  past  and  its 
future,  and  she  began  to  be  desperate.  A  child  might 
have  saved  her,  but  no  child  came.  Everything  was 
dark  and  finished,  and  melancholy  stalked  in  the  gay 
appearances. 

And  then,  just  when  everything  was  blackest, 
came  Caleb,  offering  her  everything  which  the  les- 
sons of  her  experience  had  taught  her  to  be  of  value. 
Can  it  be  said  that  she  did  more  than  contribute 
to  the  crisis  which  she  herself  knew  to  be  inevitable 
from  the  very  first  ? 

Blinding  in  its  suddenness,  horrible  in  its  effect, 
and  enduring  in  its  result,  she  nevertheless  nurtured 
a  sneaking  welcome  to  the  first  sounds  of  its  coming. 
She  had  reached  a  position  that  was  intolerable. 
What  part  Julius  Banstead  played  in  the  careful 
staging  of  the  denounement  it  is  impossible  to  say. 
Beyond  a  known  interview  with  the  call  boy's  aunt, 
nothing  is  known  of  his  personal  machinations.  Be- 
ing a  clever  producer,  one  may  assume  that  he  did 


232  HEARTBEAT 

not  rush  the  action  of  the  tragedy,  and  that  he  chose 
the  actors  best  suited  to  their  parts.  Doubtless  he 
enjoyed  the  subtle  construction  of  his  design,  and 
rejoiced  in  the  sure  sense  of  his  technical  equipment. 
The  complete  success  of  that  culminating  crisis  must 
have  thrilled  him. 

The  last  week  in  July  Caleb  had  gone  away  for  a 
fortnight's  holiday.  He  went  with  laggard  feet,  for 
the  interruption  took  him  from  his  love.  Gracie  was 
then  in  Ireland,  and  her  sister  and  husband  were  tak- 
ing the  two  children  down  to  Swanage.  There  was 
no  excuse  for  his  not  joining  them.  He  was  fond  of 
the  children,  and  he  had  neglected  them  of  late.  His 
first  letter  was  couched  in  this  strain : 

DARLING, — 

I  am  seated  in  a  little  garden  looking  down  into  Swanage  Bay, 
where  white  sails  flitter  hither  and  thither  in  an  opalescent  haze  of 
sea  and  sky.  Hollyhocks  stare  at  me  over  the  low,  stone  wall,  and 
the  tender  green  of  tamarisks  fades  away  into  the  yellow  sands  be- 
low. The  sun  is  always  shining,  and  at  night  a  pale  moon  looms 
disconsolately  above  the  sea  like  a  wistful  mother.  And  it  is  all 
hideous.  At  least,  I  don't  mean  hideous — I  mean  empty.  It  is 
beautiful  and  adorable,  but  empty  and  meaningless.  Oh !  my  dear, 
my  dear.  I  sit  here  at  night,  all  alone  in  the  empty  garden,  think- 
ing of  you,  wanting  you,  aching  for  you.  It  is  all  a  setting  and 
no  more;  an  empty  stage.  It  is  only  love  which  brings  it  all  to 
life.  How  beastly  it  is — pur  luck.  It  makes  one  feel  that  the  fall 
of  man  was  a  matter  of  inexperience  rather  than  conscious  wicked- 
ness. We  were  both  unwise,  but,  God  in  Heaven !  we  didn't  mean 
to  be  wicked.  We  both  yearned  for  beauty,  and  because  we  had  not 
seen  it,  we  took  the  reflection  for  the  reality.  And  now  that  we 
have  seen  the  reality  and  hold  it  within  our  grasp  we  are  paralysed 
by  the  cruelty  its  acceptance  may  bring  to  others.  I  play  with  the 
children  on  the  shore,  and  their  love  and  trust  shame  me,  because  I 
am  always  thinking  of  other  children — yours  and  mine.  Getting 
through  the  days  is  a  torture.  In  town  one  does  not  feel  it  so  much. 
Even  when  I  do  not  see  you  I  know  that  you  may  appear  at  any 
moment.  Barbara,  I  love  you  and  nothing  can  ever  take  that  from 
me. 

Your  own 

CALEB. 


DIASTOLE  233 

Barbara  replied  in  a  similar  but  brief  strain,  and 
these  letters  passed  two  at  a  time  every  day  for  the 
week.  On  the  Saturday  Caleb  received  a  telegram. 

G.  going  away  Sunday  morning  till  Monday  evening. 

On  Saturday  night  Caleb  arrived  home  at  his 
rooms  in  the  Fulham  Road  for  the  week-end.  At 
eleven  o'clock  on  the  Sunday  morning  he  rang  Bar- 
bara up.  Yes,  Mrs.  Champneys  was  at  home;  he 
should  be  put  through  to  her.  Barbara's  dear  voice. 
Everything  satisfactory.  George  had  just  gone  off 
with  Ebbway  in  the  car  to  Walmer.  They  were  go- 
ing to  play  golf;  would  not  be  back  till  just  in  time 
for  the  show  the  next  night.  Well,  where  should  they 
meet?  Oh,  Barbara  would  call  for  him.  She  was 
there  within  the  hour.  They  lunched  somewhere, 
neither  was  quite  sure  where,  and  in  the  afternoon 
they  motored  to  Pangbourne,  and  went  on  the  river 
in  a  skiff.  They  would  have  preferred  a  punt,  but 
neither  knew  how  to  punt,  and  so  Caleb  rowed  and 
they  tied  up  under  the  willows,  and  five  hours  slipped 
by  before  they  had  had  time  to  recount  all  the  impor- 
tant things  that  had  happened  during  the  week's 
separation.  The  river  was  rather  crowded,  and  a 
rowing  boat  is  not  the  most  comfortable  thing  to  lie 
in,  and  so,  shortly  after  six,  they  returned  to  town. 

"I  feel  extravagant,"  said  Barbara.  ''Let's  dine 
somewhere  jolly.  I '11  pay. ' ' 

She  laughed,  and  Caleb  laughed.  Money  was  such 
a  contemptible  thing  in  the  scale  of  their  love.  They 
were  always  candid  about  it,  and  Barbara  was  so 
much  richer  than  he. 

They  dined  at  an  expensive  but  rather  secluded 
restaurant  in  Vigo  Street,  and  drank  champagne. 


234  HEARTBEAT 

They  sat  for  a  long  time  over  their  dinner,  exchang- 
ing eternal  intimacies,  and  flashing  messages  with 
their  eyes  and  hands.  At  last  Barbara  said : 

"Well,  we  must  go." 

He  nodded.  "Eight  you  are.  I'll  see  you  home." 

They  went  out  and  hailed  a  taxi.  Caleb  looked  at 
her  meaningly  and  repeated:  "I'll  see  you  home." 

She  nodded,  and  Caleb  turned  to  the  driver  and 
said: 

"I  want  you  to  drive  to  the  Fulham  Road.  Go 
straight  down.  I'll  tell  you  where  to  stop." 

They  got  into  the  cab,  and  Barbara  remarked : 

"You  are  a  little  devil!" 


vm. 

THE  mise-en-scene  for  the  climax  was  not  chosen 
with  any  regard  to  aesthetic  considerations.  Caleb's 
rooms  were  dingy,  badly  lighted,  and  not  even  too 
clean.  Smells  of  ancient  cooking  pervaded  the  stair- 
case. In  other  respects  the  place  was  suitable 
enough. 

In  the  first  place,  the  landlady  and  her  husband 
had  gone  out  to  a  supper-party,  and  some  lodgers 
who  lived  on  the  top  floor  were  unknown  to  Caleb, 
and  seldom  visible.  To  all  intents  and  purposes  they 
had  the  house  to  themselves.  They  entered  the  sit- 
ting-room, and  Caleb  turned  on  the  light  and  locked 
the  door.  Then  he  took  her  in  his  arms.  The  em- 
brace was  of  the  prolonged,  silent  kind.  When  it 
came  to  an  end  Barbara  sighed  and  took  off  her  hat. 
In  the  corner  by  the  window  was  a  box  ottoman, 
with  some  cushions.  Caleb  said : 


DIASTOLE  235 

''Come,  let's  sit  down." 

She  sat  a  little  timidly  on  the  edge  of  the  ottoman, 
and  he  sat  by  her  side.  Suddenly  he  remarked: 

"I  don't  think  we  need  the  light." 

He  went  and  turned  it  off,  and  then  returned  to 
her,  and  they  made  themselves  more  comfortable  in 
the  darkness.  There  had  been  no  indecision  in  all 
these  actions.  Each  seemed  to  know  that  everything 
was  predetermined.  Even  that  which  followed,  the 
passionate  manifestation  of  mutual  desire,  was  delib- 
erate, as  though  conceived  in  an  impatient  presenti- 
ment. Swanage  Bay  was  a  poor  place  compared 
with  the  dingy  room  in  the  Fulham  Road.  The  pos- 
sessive sense  was  soothed.  She  dozed  at  last,  in  a 
sweet  luxury  of  fatigue,  and  Caleb  listened  to  her 
gentle  breathing. 

Suddenly  she  started.  He  felt  the  white  chill  of 
fear  about  her. 

"What's  that?" 

There  was  a  sound  on  the  stairs  outside.  Quite 
true.  It  was  his  business  as  a  man  to  calm  her. 

"It's  nothing,  darling.  The  people  upstairs,  I 
expect. ' '  Then  he  added  in  a  whisper : ' ' The  door's 
locked,  anyway." 

There  were  footsteps  in  the  passage.  Somehow 
the  terror  was  contagious.  Of  course  it  was  only  the 
people  from  upstairs.  Barbara  must  not  be  alarmed; 
that  was  the  first  consideration.  But,  God !  what 
was  this  inevitable  premonition  of  horror?  Why  did 
it  seem  such  a  vivid  and  foreboding  fatality  that,  al- 
though he  had  locked  the  sitting-room  door  he  had 
forgotten  to  lock  the  bedroom  door,  and  the  folding 
doors  between  the  two  were  open?  Why  didn't  he 
dash  across  even  now  and  lock  it?— and  frighten  Bar- 


236  HEARTBEAT 

bara?    No,  no,  it  was  all  foolish.    In  another  second 
he  would  hear  the  sounds  dying  away. 

The  handle  turned.  Someone  had  entered  the 
bedroom.  Barbara  was  sitting  up,  clutching  him 
fearfully. 

"What  is  it,  Caleb?  Who  is  it!" 

And  still  he  could  not  move.  The  crisis  had  come 
and  he  lay  there,  as  in  a  coma,  watching  its  develop- 
ment. There  was  no  electric  light,  but  a  match  was 
struck  in  the  next  room.  Two  figures  appeared  at 
the  opening  of  the  folding  doors. 

They  were  George  and  Ebbway. 

Someone  said : ' '  My  Christ ! ' '  and  the  match  went 
out. 

They  had  all  seen  each  other.  Ebbway  struck  an- 
other match  and  advanced  into  the  room  to  light  the 
gas.  His  face  was  white  and  he  was  trembling  like 
a  leaf.  George  remained  by  the  folding  doors.  Bar- 
bara was  still  seated,  making  ineffectual  dabs  at  her 
disordered  hair.  Caleb  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
window,  looking  like  a  murderer  condemned  to 
death.  The  incandescent  gas  cast  a  cold,  greenish 
light  over  the  room,  and  made  all  their  faces  appear 
ghastly.  The  atmosphere  of  guilt  swathed  the  actors 
with  a  weird  mantle  of  inertia.  There  was  nothing 
to  be  said  or  done. 

After  lighting  the  gas  Ebbway  drew  back  and 
stood  near  George,  as  though  following  his  tradi- 
tional habit  of  giving  up  stage  centre  to  his  chief. 
It  was  a  position  which  the  famous  comedian  ap- 
peared unable  to  take  advantage  of.  He  put  his 
hand  to  his  heart ;  his  breath  came  with  difficulty. 


DIASTOLE  237 

He  gave  a  kind  of  whimper:  "Fancy "  and 

then  stopped.  His  face  shook,  and  tears  started 
to  his  eyes.  He  appeared  to  grow  suddenly  old,  all 
the  purposes  and  desires  of  his  being  mangled  by  a 
glance.  He  was  a  finished  man,  broken  and  pitiable. 

Barbara  saw  all  this,  and  a  profound  pity  for  him 
crept  into  her  eyes.  Poor  old  George!  She  could 
not  have  controlled  the  feeling,  whatever  the  circum- 
stances, but  almost  instantly  she  remembered  his 
saying: 

' '  The  one  thing  I  won't  have  is  your  pity.  When 
a  man  wants  love,  and  he  gets  only  pity,  it  drives 
him  mad. ' ' 

The  words  danced  through  her  memory  as  she 
saw  his  face  change.  Her  pity  robbed  him  of  the  last 
shred  of  hope.  He  was  no  longer  a  man,  no  longer 
a  lover,  but  a  madman.  He  who  was,  by  nature,  a 
possessor  was  robbed  of  his  greatest  possession. 
Into  that  one  moment  there  crowded  all  the  spoiled 
impulses  of  his  life,  multiplying  self-pity.  As  hap- 
pens with  a  weak  man  in  a  crisis,  his  egotism  was 
the  controlling  force.  He  was  blinded  by  the  cumu- 
lative disappointments  and  disillusions,  and  this  last 
disillusion  of  all  acted  upon  him  a  he  had  predicted. 
It  fired  him  with  a  gleam  of  insanity.  For  a  second 
he  rushed  at  her,  as  though  about  to  strike  her.  He 
raised  his  arms  above  his  head,  then  stopped  and 
shivered :  saliva  oozed  around  his  lips.  He  screamed 
at  her  in  hoarse,  rough  accents,  in  which  the  Lan- 
cashire note  was  evident: 

"Get  out  of  it — ye  bloody  prostitute" 
Barbara  slunk  against  the  wall,  and  whimpered. 
Her  terror  was  entirely  physical.    She  was  prepared 
to  duck  and  flee  if  he  attacked  her.    And  it  was  not 


238  HEARTBEAT 

her  own  life  which  this  instinct  prompted  her  to  pro- 
tect. She  had  got  beyond  all  that.  She  must  get 
away,  somehow — anyhow,  before  he  destroyed  that 
other  life  for  which  she  was  responsible.  She  slunk 
by  a  sideboard,  watching  him  alertly.  At  the  same 
instant  she  heard  Caleb's  voice: 

"Oh,  no,  not  that,  not  that!" 

The  distraction  caused  George  to  turn  away,  and 
she  reached  the  door.  Another  moment  and  she 
would  have  been  through  it,  when  her  progress  was 
stayed  by  the  sounds  of  a  falling  chair.  George 
seemed  to  have  observed  Caleb  for  the  first  time — 
the  man  who  had  robbed  him  of  his  most  precious 
possession.  With  a  growl  he  lurched  towards  him 
and  grabbed  at  the  other's  throat.  In  a  normal  fight 
the  odds  would  have  been  about  equal.  George  was 
heavier,  taller,  and  stronger,  but  on  the  other,  Caleb 
was  nimbler  and  in  better  condition.  One  blow  over 
the  heart  would  probably  have  crumpled  the  older 
man  up.  But  George  was  fired  with  the  fury  of  a 
maniac,  and  Caleb  was  defending  himself  with  the 
nervelessness  of  a  guilty  man.  In  Caleb's  eyes 
George's  anger  was  justifiable,  and  he  could  only 
protect  himself.  The  confined  space  and  the  con- 
gested furniture  played  their  part  in  the  brief  strug- 
gle. George  fell  over  a  chair,  but  in  falling  he  man- 
aged to  grip  the  other 's  throat,  and  they  both  crashed 
against  a  cabinet  on  which  were  china  vases.  Ebb- 
way  was  crying  out: 

"Don't!    Don't!    For  God's  sake!" 

Before  he  could  get  near  to  part  them  they  had 
fallen  in  a  heap  amongst  smashed  vases.  Blood  was 
let  on  either  side,  and  there  was  a  feral  growling  and 
groping  for  primitive  weapons.  It  was  impossible 


DIASTOLE  239 

to  see  exactly  what  took  place  in  that  ugly  minute. 
By  the  time  Barbara  had  reached  them,  Ebbway  was 
pulling  George  away,  and  Caleb  was  coughing  in  a 
queer,  unnatural  way,  a  kind  of  inside  choking 
cough.  Ebbway  exerted  all  his  strength  and  man- 
aged to  pull  George  back  on  to  the  ottoman.  He 
continued  to  shout: 

" For  God's  sake!    For  God's  sake!" 

George  fell  among  the  cushions,  which  a  few  min- 
utes earlier  had  been  the  playground  of  a  different 
passion.  His  passion  being  sated  momentarily,  the 
wave  of  insanity  also  passed.  His  hand  was  cut,  and 
he  groaned  aloud : 

" Throw  the into  the  street." 

But  Ebbway  was  kneeling  over  the  fallen  boy, 
about  whose  neck  was  an  ugly  gash. 

"My  God!"  Ebbway  was  saying,  "get  someone — 
a  doctor,  quick!" 

Two  scared  people  appeared  at  the  door,  the 
lodgers  from  upstairs.  It  was  Barbara  who  dashed 
out  into  the  street,  calling  out  to  the  first  person 
she  met : 

1 '  A  doctor !  quick !    Where 's  the  nearest  doctor  ? ' ' 

It  was  nearly  twenty  minutes  before  a  doctor  was 
found.  When  he  arrived  with  Barbara,  there  was 
a  crowd  outside  the  house,  and  two  policemen  were 
in  charge.  The  doctor,  a  quiet,  elderly  man,  went 
calmly  to  work.  He  knelt  upon  the  floor,  and  the  only 
remark  he  made  was : 

"This  is  a  case  for  the  mortuary." 

Barbara  screamed,  and  Ebbway  put  his  arm 
around  her. 

"Courage,  Mrs.  Champneys.  It's  all  right!  it's 
all  right!" 


240  HEARTBEAT 

He  patted  her  hands,  and  coaxed  her.  George's 
interest  in  her  had  subsided.  He  was  lying  back  on 
the  ottoman,  nursing  his  bleeding  hand.  His  large 
eyes  were  transfixed,  staring  obliquely  at  the  hud- 
dled form  upon  the  floor.  Suddenly  he  exclaimed : 

1 '  By  Christ !  they  '11  hang  me ! " 

It  was  again  Ebbway's  mission  to  act  as  com- 
forter. He  patted  the  big  man's  shoulder. 

"No,  no,  old  boy.  Don't  you  be  frightened.  It 
was  an  accident.  I  saw  it  all.  You  never  meant  to 
kill  him.  He  felt  on  the  vase" 

Then,  as  a  masterly  after-thought : 

"A  man  is  always  justified  in  defending  his  wife's 
honour. ' ' 

The  scene  became  an  unwieldy  phantasmagoria. 
Strange  faces  came  and  went,  unreal  people  with 
notebooks  and  solemn,  official  manner.  Questions 
were  asked,  and  incoherently  answered.  She  and 
George  never  looked  at  each  other. 

"I  can't  stand  this  any  longer,"  she  suddenly 
thought.  The  desire  to  escape  became  an  obsession. 
She  crept  out  of  the  room  and  went  downstairs. 
There  was  a  policeman  in  the  hall.  She  drifted  by 
him  to  the  kitchen  stairs,  as  though  waiting  for  some- 
one. When  he  was  not  looking  she  stole  down  into 
the  kitchen.  The  basement  was  deserted.  She  let 
herself  out  into  the  side  passage,  which  connected 
with  the  tiny  front  garden.  She  walked  calmly 
through  the  crowd  of  people  outside  the  gate.  When 
she  came  to  the  first  turning  she  ran.  She  was 
whimpering  like  a  dog  that  has  been  thrashed.  Where 
was  she  to  go  ?  She  had  no  money,  not  even  her  hat. 
She  would  never,  never  go  back  to  George's  house 
at  Kensington.  Perhaps  they  would  put  her  in  gaol. 


DIASTOLE  241 

What  did  it  matter?  Suddenly  she  thought  of  Isa- 
bel. Isabel  was  living  at  that  time  in  lodgings  at 
Netting  Hill.  She  walked  all  the  way  there,  too  pre- 
occupied to  be  conscious  of  the  concern  her  dishev- 
elled appearance  caused.  To  her  relief  she  observed 
a  light  at  the  window  of  the  first-floor  room,  which 
was  Isabel's  sitting-room.  She  knocked,  and  a 
woman  let  her  in.  She  went  upstairs  and  tapped  on 
the  door.  There  was  a  sound  of  laughter  and  the 
clink  of  glasses.  Her  knock  had  not  been  heard.  She 
opened  the  door.  Isabel  and  four  other  people  were 
sitting  round  a  table,  playing  cards  and  drinking 
beer.  They  were  all  in  high  good  spirts,  far  too 
good  sprits  to  be  concerned  at  the  appearance  of  a 
dishevelled  girl.  Someone  called  out: 

' '  Hullo !  here 's  Fancy.    Come  on,  Fancy,  and  take 
a  hand.    They've  got  all  my  money." 

She  looked  beseechingly  at  Isabel  and  said : 
"Can  I  have  a  word  with  you  in  the  next  room?" 
Isabel  detected  trouble,  and  she  rose  at  once  from 
the  table  and  went  out  with  her.  They  both  went  in- 
to the  bedroom.  As  briefly  as  she  could  she  described 
what  had  happened,  but  before  the  narrative  was 
completed  she  had  fainted.    Isabel  put  her  to  bed. 
"When  she  came  to,  Isabel  was  bathing  her  temples 
with  scent  and  murmuring : 

"It's  all  right,  my  lamb;  you  stop  here.    I  expect 
you've  exaggerated  the  trouble." 

IX. 

ISABEL'S  conclusions  were  usually  laconic  and  fre- 
quently shrewd;  but  on  this  occasion  they  proved 
wide  of  the  mark.  Barbara  had  not  exaggerated 


242  HEARTBEAT 

the  trouble ;  she  had  rather  understated  it.  On  that 
night  and  during  the  weeks  that  followed,  her  sanity 
was  only  preserved  by  a  concentration  on  one  cen- 
tral fact.  It  simplified  the  issue  considerably. 
Everything  was  lost  and  finished,  except  that  one 
reality  which  it  was  her  mission  to  vitalise.  She  was 
unable  to  focus  the  disaster  which  had  overwhelmed 
her.  The  loss  of  Caleb  and  his  love  was  the  domi- 
nant calamity.  By  comparison,  the  loss  of  her  posi- 
tion, her  public  disgrace  in  the  law  courts,  and  the 
question  as  to  what  would  happen  to  George,  seemed 
trivialites. 

A  few  days  later  a  letter  came  from  a  lawyer  to 
state  that  "his  client,  Mr.  George  Champneys,  was' 
prepared  to  take  her  back  on  certain  conditions." 
She  tore  the  letter  up.  A  week  later  a  letter  came 
from  George  himself,  imploring  her  to  go  back,  on 
any  conditions,  when  he  was  released  after  the  trial. 
She  tore  that  up  also.  On  that  point  her  mind  was 
definitely  made  up.  Under  no  circumstances  would 
she  ever  go  back  to  the  man  who  had  murdered  her 
lover,  for  murder  him  he  had.  In  the  witness-box 
she  averred  that  she  did  not  see  what  happened  in 
the  struggle.  She  suppressed  the  fact  that  she  saw 
George  stab  at  Caleb  with  a  broken  vase.  Her  accu- 
sation did  not  seem  worth  while.  What  did  it  mat- 
ter now?  She  was  not  vengeful.  She  did  not  want 
George  to  be  hanged.  He  would  be  a  very  bad  con- 
demned man,  probably  go  mad.  It  would  be  horrible 
to  contemplate.  Caleb  was  dead,  and  it  didn't  mat- 
ter what  happened  to  George ;  but  she  would  never 
live  with  him  again.  Neither  would  she  ever  take  a 
penny  of  his  money.  She  had  wronged  him  and  be- 
trayed him,  and  to  accept  money  from  him  would 


DIASTOLE  243 

be  placing  her  in  the  position  of  the  thing  he  had 
called  her.  All  that  was  finished  between  them  Of 
course  George  would  get  off.  He  would  be  worried 
and  harrassed,  and  spend  some  time  in  a  comfortable 
gaol,  having  his  meals  sent  in;  but  clever  lawyers 
would  see  him  through.  Ebbway  had  sworn  that 
he  actually  saw  the  deceased  strike  his  head  on  the 
broken  vase  as  he  fell !  She  also  had  lied  for  George, 
and  the  lawyers  would  make  a  great  deal  of  the 
" defending  of  his  wife's  honour." 

His  wife's  honour!  Well,  she  had  not  denied  her 
guilt,  and  she  was  vividly  alert  to  the  ' '  sensation  in 
court"  when,  in  reply  to  the  question:  "How  long 
had  this  been  going  on?"  she  had  replied:  "About 
four  months." 

All  theatrical  London  was  there,  in  its  best  hats 
and  frocks,  and  there  was  a  kind  of  hiss  of  delight. 
Oh,  yes,  she  was  finished  all  right,  so  far  as  that 
went.  The  climax  had  been  thorough.  But  the  cen- 
tral fact  remained — her  mission  was  not  yet  fulfilled. 
She  had  to  go  on  living.  What  was  she  to  do  ?  She 
was  a  fool  not  to  have  retained  her  father's  dole! 
Four  hundred  a  year  now  would  be  a  fortune.  WTien 
Isabel,  not  tauntingly  but  maternally,  remarked: 
"I  told  you,  dear,  you  were  silly  not  to  ask  him  for  a 
settlement  just  after  you  were  married,"  she  could 
not  be  angry,  for  she  was  living  on  Isabel's  charity, 
and  that  she  could  not  do  for  long.  After  her  dis- 
grace theatrical  managers  would  fight  shy  of  her, 
neither  would  she  ever  be  in  the  mood  again  to  sing 
and  dance.  In  a  few  months  such  a  thing  would  be 
impossible,  anyway.  She  had  no  other  accomplish- 
ments. 


244  HEARTBEAT 

At  last  she  bethought  her  that  at  George's  house 
were  certain  pieces  of  furniture  and  a  few  trinkets 
which  had  been  hers  before  she  married  him.  She 
wrote  to  the  lawyers  about  this.  Negotiations  went 
on  for  several  weeks,  but  eventually  they  were  sent 
to  her.  She  sold  them.  The  result  realised  one 
hundred  and  twenty  pounds,  and  she  breathed  again. 
With  economy  that  would  keep  her  till  the  end  of 
November — the  fateful  month.  And  atfterwards? 
The  future  did  not  bear  thinking  about.  Caleb  had 
said — she  must  not  always  be  thinking  about  Caleb. 
The  tears  started  to  her  eyes  as  she  snapped  the 
little  shutters  on  recurring  memories. 

''Anyway,  it  will  be  Caleb's  child.  His,  when  he 
was  young  and  unspoiled.  Mine,  when  I  was  at  my 
happiest." 

Ajid  she  became  alive  to  the  necessity  for  placid 
contemplation  and  calm  hope. 

Isabel  was  angelic.  Materialistic  and  thriftless, 
she  was  yet  prepared  to  share  her  last  crust  with  her 
downfallen  friend.  Neither  did  she  make  any  great 
attempt  to  influence  her  attitude.  "You  beat  me, 
darling,"  she  said  once.  "  You've  only  got  to  stretch 
out  your  hand  and  you  can  get  it  all  back,  or  nearly 
all.  Instead  of  that,  you  prefer  to  pig  it  along  with 
me.  When  the  kid  comes,  it's  going  to  be  precious 
difficult,  old  girl." 

One  night  Isabel  came  in  very  late,  and  found 
Barbara  awake.  She  undressed  quietly  and  got  into 
bed  alongside  Barbara.  They  whispered  together, 
odds  and  ends  of  subjects,  and  then  Isabel  said: 

"I  suppose  you  know,  old  girl,  you  could  stop 
this  if  you  liked?" 

"Stop  it?    What?" 


DIASTOLE  245 

You  know— what 's  going  to  happen. ' ' 
For  a  moment  Barbara  could  not  grasp  her  mean- 
ing.   Then  she  said  eagerly. 

' 'Oh,  no,  no.    I'm  not  going  to  do  that."    Isabel 
sighed  and  remarked: 

"Oh,  well,  it's  your  business.    I  know  what  I'd 
do." 

Barbara  did  not  answer,  and  Isabel  thought  to 
herself: 

"This  child  beats  me.  I  can't  see  what  her  game 
is." 

Bleak  autumn  months  closed  in.  The  great  Frolic 
tragedy  ceased  to  hold  public  interest.  George  had 
been  released ;  but  it  was  said  that  he  was  broken  in 
health  and  had  gone  abroad.  He  had  made  five  at- 
tempts to  see  Barbara,  but  she  always  managed  to 
avoid  him.  He  sent  emissaries  offering  her  money, 
and  any  terms  she  liked,  and  she  rejected  them. 
He  called  himself,  but  instructions  had  been  left 
with  the  landlady  to  say  that  she  was  out,  whenever 
this  occurred.  At  last,  apparently,  he  gave  up  hope 
and  went  away.  The  theatre  was  closed,  and  the 
house  in  Kensington  let  to  another  tenant. 

London  is  an  excellent  place  to  hide  in.  In  the 
comparative  obscurity  of  Netting  Hill  she  managed 
to  avoid  all  her  theatrical  acquaintances.  She  never 
went  up  to  the  old  haunts.  Many  of  her  friends  sent 
her  sympathetic  letters,  and  Ebbway  was  kindness 
itself;  but  her  great  desire  was  to  sever  herself  from 
that  side  of  her  life.  The  association  was  too  bitter, 
the  record  too  humiliatng,  the  wound  too  fresh. 

"I  must  do  some  work,"  she  said  to  Isabel,  after 
a  fortnight's  idleness.  She  ran  her  eye  over  the 
whole  gamut  of  women's  unskilled  labour  market 


246  HEARTBEAT 

and  the  prospects  loomed  appalling.  She  would 
have  gone  as  nursemaid,  but  for  the  dread  of  meet- 
ing people  who  knew  her.  She  could  not  type  or  do 
shorthand,  and  she  was  ignorant  of  clerking.  Even 
a  mother's  help  or  a  shop-assistant  requires  some 
knowledge  and  a  "character"  from  a  responsible 
person.  At  last,  through  the  intervention  of  a  friend 
of  Isabel's,  she  did  obtain  work  of  a  kind.  It  was 
as  an  assistant  to  two  women  who  strung  pearls,  and 
who  had  a  little  establishment  just  off  New  Oxford 
Street.  They  were  quite  pleasant  women,  and  the 
principal  was  French,  and  her  name  Madame  Guil- 
lard.  She  worked  there  seven  hours  a  day,  and 
they  paid  her  fifteen  shillings  a  week.  The  amount 
seemed  pitiable  after  her  inflated  experiences.  In 
any  case,  it  would  help  her  to  eke  out  her  small  capi- 
tal, and  above  all  things  it  would  help  to  distract  her 
mind. 

"  Barbara  Powerscourt  is  dead.  Fancy  Telling  is 
dead,"  she  said  one  day  to  Isabel.  "The  third  per- 
son is  suspended  like  Mahomet's  coffin.  Caleb  al- 
ways said  that  everything  was  a  trinity.  I'm  be- 
ginning to  understand  what  he  meant. ' ' 

"The  pity  is,"  replied  Isabel,  "that  you  can't  go 
and  have  a  good  time,  and  forget  about  it. " 

Barbara  smiled  and  shook  her  head.  She  fully 
appreciated  her  friend's  meaning.  It  had  often 
been  her  own  solution  when  she  was  person  num- 
ber two,  but — even  if  she  were  a  millionairess — it 
did  not  fit  in  with  the  aspirations  of  person  number 
three.  No,  in  the  meantime  the  little  room  off  New 
Oxford  Street  served  her  purpose.  The  work  she 
was  given  to  do  was  purely  mechanical,  tying  knots, 
checking,  even  running  errands  and  making  tea,  but 


DIASTOLE  247 

the  work  itself  was  interesting,  and  the  expert  knowl- 
edge displayed  by  Madame  Guillard  and  her  friend 
surprised  her.  When  she  first  went,  one  pearl 
looked  like  any  other,  but  these  two  ladies  were  able 
to  detect  the  subtlest  quality  and  gradation,  and  she 
gradually  began  to  recognise  differences  also.  Isa- 
bel was  performing  in  a  sketch  at  the  Victoria  Pal- 
ace, and  they  did  not  see  much  of  each  other. 

One  afternoon  in  the  middle  of  October  she  was 
at  work  at  Madame  Guillard 's  when  a  charming 
woman  came  in  about  some  pearls  she  wished  re- 
set. She  was  in  the  early  thirties,  of  medium  height, 
with  a  distinguished  pose  of  head  and  wistful,  sym- 
pathetic eyes.  Barbara  had  never  heard  a  gentler 
voice  or  seen  a  more  ingratiating  manner.  She 
talked  for  some  time  to  Madame  Guillard,  and  then 
Barbara  became  aware  that  the  good  lady  was  look- 
ing at  her  with  interest.  Others  were  also  in  the 
habit  of  looking  at  her  with  interest  at  that  time,  and 
making  her  feel  uncomfortable,  but  one  could  not  re- 
sent the  peculiarly  kindly  and  sympathetic  glance 
of  this  customer.  When  the  arrangement  about  the 
string  of  pearls  had  been  finally  settled,  she  walked 
slowly  towards  the  door.  As  she  was  passing  Bar- 
bara's desk,  she  turned  to  Madame  Guillard  and 
smiled. 

"  Perhaps  this  young  lady  will  bring  them  to  me 
when  they  are  ready?" 

"Parfaitement,  madame." 

Barbara  smiled  back  at  her  and  nodded  her  head. 
When  the  lady  had  gone  she  felt  all  a-flutter,  as 
though  something  very  important  had  happened  to 
her.  She  was  to  learn  afterwards  that  it  had. 


248  HEARTBEAT 

The  voluble  Madame  Guillard  returned  to  the 
room,  exclaiming: 

"Oh,  but  she  is  charming,  distinguee — and  so  rich! 
Haul" 

"What  is  her  name,  Madame  Guillard ?"  Barbara 
asked. 

"Her  name?  She  is  Mrs.  Myrtle,  wife  of — what  he 
is?  Some  big  man  in  Government  and  the  ships,  an 
old  familee.  Veree  rich,  a  nice  man,  but  too  old  for 
her,  I  t'ink.  She  is  so  sad,  isn't  it?  You  see  her  face, 
a  sad,  sweet  face.  They  entertain  at  their  beautiful 
bouse  in  Sout'  Street,  and  they  have  a  big,  big  place 
in  Yorkshire — old — very  old  mansion.  She  is  veree 
kind,  a  veree  nice  customer." 

Four  days  later  Barbara  appeared  at  the  house  in 
South  Street  by  appointment,  and  was  shown  into  a 
white-panelled  morning-room,  with  Chinese  cur- 
tains and  red  lacquer  furniture.  A  small  clock 
above  the  fireplace  whispered  the  velvet  beat  of  in- 
destructible time.  There  was  about  this  room  an 
atmosphere  Barbara  had  never  encountered  before, 
a  quality  which  wealth  alone  could  not  buy.  The 
furniture  and  curtains  spoke  of  that  security  of  cul- 
tivation which  had  outlived  the  very  meaning  of  its 
production.  These  seemed  not  to  be  chairs  and  cabi- 
nets and  tables,  but  a  spiritual  atmosphere  in  which 
these  things  dumbly  reposed. 

Within  a  few  minutes  Mrs.  Myrtle  entered  the 
room,  wearing  a  dress  of  black  crepe  de  chine.  Im- 
mediately the  room  seemed  to  respond  to  her  per- 
vading presence.  Everything  took  its  place,  and 
even  the  caller  seemed  a  part  of  an  unstudied  perfec- 
tion. Mrs.  Myrtle  shook  hands  and  thanked  her  for 
coming.  Then  she  opened  and  examined  the  string 


DIASTOLE  249 

of  pearls,  with  which  she  was  delighted.  This  busi- 
ness over  she  said  to  Barbara: 

"What  is  your  name?" 

The  girl  was  expecting  this,  and  she  answered 
promptly : 

' ' Barbara  Power." 

"Barbara! — a  pretty  name;  and  so  is  Power." 
Then  she  turned  to  the  fire  and  said  in  a  low  voice : 

"When  is  this  going  to  happen?" 

This  question  was  also  expected,  and  the  reply 
was: 

"About  the  third  week  next  month." 

The  presiding  genius  of  this  tranquil  retreat  now 
approached  more  difficult  ground,  and  it  was  with 
the  gentlest  pressure  of  the  arm  and  the  most  kindly 
insinuation  of  voice  that  she  enquired : 

"Your  husband!" 

"My  husband  has  left  me." 

"Ah!" 

Mrs.  Myrtle  was  toying  with  a  long  chain  of  cor- 
nelians and  regarding  the  fire  intently.  When  she 
looked  up  her  eyes  were  overflowing  with  sympathy. 

"You  live  with  friends?" 

"I  live  with  a  girl-friend— in  rooms  in  Netting 
Hill." 

Mrs.  Myrtle  nodded.  She  appeared  to  be  finding 
difficulty  in  framing  a  suggestion.  At  last  she  said: 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  think  I'm  very  impertinent  ask- 
ing you  these  questions.  Only— I  don't  know  how 
it  is.  I  felt  drawn  to  you  when  I  first  saw  you  at 
Mme.  Guillard's.  You  see,  I— I'm  very  fond  of 
children  I  have  none  of  my  own.  I  wonder  whether 
—whether  you  would  let  me  help  you,  Mrs.  Power!" 


250  HEARTBEAT 

Barbara's  eyes  narrowed.  She  had  had  a  pre- 
sentiment that  some  such  proposition  as  this  might 
be  put  before  her,  and  she  had  not,  so  far,  been  able 
to  frame  a  reply.  What  was  the  motive  ?  Her  some- 
what bitter  experience  taught  her  that  people  seldom 
acted  without  motives.  Certainly  Mrs.  Myrtle  was 
different  from  anyone  else  she  had  ever  met.  She 
could  not  believe  that  this  good  lady  could  have  any 
ulterior  motive  in  an  act  of  simple  kindness ;  at  the 
same  time,  it  was  as  well  to  be  cautious.  She  re- 
garded her  new  friend  watchfully  as  she  replied : 

"It  is  extremely  kind  of  you.  But,  really,  there's 
no  necessity.  I  shall  be  all  right." 

The  elder  woman  suddenly  put  her  arm  around 
her  and  pleaded. 

"Oh,  please,  do  let  me  help  you.  You  see,  I — I 
had  a  little  child  of  my  own,  a  girl — she  died.  It 
would  make  me  so  happy. ' ' 

After  all,  what  was  the  real  objection?  It  wasn't 
like  taking  money  from  George.  This  woman  was 
a  stranger,  just  a  kindly  stranger,  and  she  could 
afford  it.  Barbara  lowered  her  eyes  and  repeated : 

"It  is  extremely  kind  of  you." 


SHE  had  little  idea  at  that  time  of  what  was  to  be 
the  surprising  extent  of  Mrs.  Myrtle's  kindness. 
She  imagined  it  would  amount  to  gifts  of  chicken 
jelly  and,  perhaps,  an  offer  to  pay  the  doctor's  fees; 
but  a  few  days  later  Madame  Guillard  came  to  her 
and  said: 
"Barbara,  zis  charming  lady,  I  tink  she  lofs  you. 


DIASTOLE  251 

She  has  spik  to  me  of  you,  and  she  wants  to  take  you 
away.  You  are  a  lucky  leetle  girl.  Come,  now,  you 
are  to  go  to  see  her  zis  afternoon." 

And  that  afternoon  Mrs.  Myrtle  put  her  project 
before  her.  She  said  that  her  husband  was  away  on 
business  in  America,  and  he  would  not  be  back  till 
the  end  of  December.  She  had  what  she  called  a 
week-end  cottage  up  on  Leith  Hill  in  Surrey.  She 
wanted  Barbara  to  go  there  at  once.  There  were  two 
servants  there,  and  later  on  there  would  be  a  nurse 
and  a  doctor.  She  was  to  go  out  for  gentle  walks 
every  day,  and  was  to  feed  up.  Mrs.  Myrtle  herself 
would  come  down  now  and  then  and  stay  a  few 
days.  This  rapid  and  unexpected  change  in  her  for- 
tunes almost  unnerved  her,  and  she  wept  in  Mrs. 
Myrtle's  arms. 

Two  days  later  she  packed  up  her  traps,  bade  an 
affectionate  farewell  to  Isabel,  and  set  off  for  Leith 
Hill.  The  week-end  cottage  proved  to  be  a  charm- 
ingly-appointed small  Georgian  house,  with  central 
heating,  bath-rooms,  and  every  modern  convenience. 
The  bedrooms  were  large  and  airy,  with  glorious 
views  across  commons  and  pine-woods.  There  was 
a  grand  piano  and  a  library  full  of  boojss.  Mrs. 
Myrtle  went  down  with  her,  and  directed  that  every- 
thing was  to  be  done  for  her  comfort  and  complete 
satisfaction,  and  Barbara  quickly  realised  that  on 
this  score  there  would  be  little  cause  for  complaint. 
Between  the  sheets  on  that  first  night  she  thought  to 
herself : 

"Well,  this  is  the  rummest  go  of  the  lot. 
this  is  where  my  son  will  be  born— or  will  it  be  a 
girl?    No,  I've  made  up  my  mind  it  will  be  a  son, 
and  I  shall  call  him  Caleb.    I  shall  tell  him  about  this 


252  HEARTBEAT 

in  after-life — just  where  he  was  born,  and  about  Mrs. 
Myrtle's  kindness.  Its  wonderful — a  kind  of  pre- 
destination— as  though  the  way  is  being  prepared. 
Oh,  I'm  so  tired. " 

The  weather  was  wet  and  stormy,  but  every  day 
she  tramped  through  the  rain,  and  returned  home  to 
drink  glasses  of  rich  milk.  She  began  to  feel  well 
and  strangely  elated.  She  took  books  down  from  the 
library  shelves,  thumbed  them,  read  a  few  pages,  and 
then  sat  there  dreaming.  And  the  past  had  no  sig- 
nificance, and  the  future  did  not  concern  her.  And 
one  day  a  nurse  arrived,  a  brown-eyed,  sympathetic 
little  person,  who  was  friendly  without  being  too 
intrusive. 

The  crisis  came  a  week  before  it  was  expected. 
When  the  agony  came  upon  her,  she  grit  her  teeth 
and  said  to  herself:  "This  will  pass." 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  the  doctor  came,  grey- 
haired  but  athletic  of  frame.  His  calm  presence 
helped  to  fortify  her.  But  the  grim  battle  had  to  be 
fought  alone.  The  agony  increased,  and  the  next 
evening  became  so  unbearable  they  gave  her  mor- 
phia. She  swam  off  into  a  vague  unconsciousness, 
during  which  the  earth  seemed  to  be  ripped  asunder. 
She  knew  at  one  time  she  was  groaning,  and  could 
not  control  it.  A  voice  came  through  an  indetermin- 
ate mist  of  time. 

"Yell,  you  little  devil!" 

It  was  the  doctor's  voice,  and  she  clutched  at  the 
sheets  and  tried  to  speak.  The  nurse  was  leaning 
over  her,  and  at  last  the  whisper  came  through : 

"It's  all  right,  my  dear.  You're  all  right.  It's 
a  boy.  He's  all  right." 


DIASTOLE  253 

Again  she  drifted  away,  but  this  time  the  dark- 
ness was  sanctified.  When  next  she  came  in  contact 
with  the  conscious  world,  she  managed  to  say : 

"Where  is  he?" 

The  nurse  was  smoothing  her  pillow.  She  said 
quietly : 

"You  can't  see  him  yet,  dear.  You  must  wait  a 
little  while.  He's  quite  all  right.  Don't  fret." 

When  at  last  she  saw  her  son,  it  was  the  most  mov- 
ing hut  the  most  tranquil  moment  in  her  life.  The 
nurse  allowed  her  to  kiss  him  once,  and  then  took 
him  away. 

It  was  many  hours  later  before  she  could  say : 

"Why  did  they  call  him  a  little  devil?" 

Nurse  laughed.  "  Oh,  that  was  Doctor  Pollen.  We 
couldn't  make  him  cry.  We  thought  at  one  time  he 
was  never  going  to." 

The  morning  brought  Mrs.  Myrtle,  all  eagerness 
and  joy.  She  kissed  Barbara,  and  said : 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  congratulate  you.  He's  a 
splendid  baby." 

Strength  and  vitality  slowly  returned,  and  : 
consciousness   of  the  wealth  of  her  achievement. 
Mother  and  child  did  well.    She  lay  there  idly  re- 
garding the  deft  activities  of  the  nurse  and 
clamorous  protests  of  the  babe.    Sometimes  she  was 
allowed  to  have  him  in  the  bed  with  her,  and  she 
anxiously  scanned  every  line  of  the  little  body 

"You  can't  say  he's  particularly  like  anybody, 
can  you,  Nurse?"  she  once  remarked. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  my  dear,"  the  other  replied 
encouragingly    ' '  He  has  blue  eyes  at  present. 
often  Slough.    I  think  the  chin  is  like  yonrs. 
Of  course,  I " 


254  HEARTBEAT 

"You  mean  you  never  saw  the  father,  Nurse. 
He  had  blue  eyes." 

"Ah!" 

It  is,  nevertheless,  always  rather  sanguine  to  de- 
tect likenesses  in  a  few  days*  old  baby.  Barbara 
Jwas  perhaps  a  little  disappointed  in  this.  She  seemed 
to  expect  a  speaking  likeness  of  Caleb,  with  all  his 
characteristics  and  quaint  manners  clearly  de- 
veloped. 

"What  a  long  time  to  wait,"  she  thought.  But 
still,  there  would  always  be  the  interest  of  this  de- 
velopment. Every  year  a  little  more  and  a  little 
more. 

Development!  As  the  days  and  then  the  weeks 
progressed,  and  she  was  able  to  sit  up  and  then  to 
move  to  another  room,  to  walk  slowly,  and  to  feel  the 
old  vitality  returning  to  her  limbs,  the  practical  con- 
sideration of  development  was  beginning  to  grow 
on  her.  The  mission  had  been  fulfilled,  but  its  further 
direction  had  yet  to  be  determined.  The  intervention 
of  Mrs.  Myrtle  had  been  like  an  act  of  God,  but  she 
had  no  intention  of  taking  advantage  of  it  further 
than  was  necessary.  She  and  her  son  would  not  live 
on  charity.  It  would  mean,  then,  when  well  enough, 
a  return  to  Netting  Hill  and  to  the  pearl- stringing 
business.  Fortunately  her  hundred  and  twenty 
pounds  remained  untouched.  They  would  manage 
somehow. 

In  any  case,  Mrs.  Myrtle  had  not  even  given  any 

hint  of  an  indefinite  state  of  charity.    She  had  only 

said:  *&\  ' 

"Now,  my  dear,  you  are  to  stay  here  as  long  as 

ever  you  like." 


DIASTOLE  255 

A  remark  which  plainly  hinted  that  a  day  would 
come  when  she  would  expect  the  mother  and  child  to 
turn  out. 

On  a  December  day,  when  the  snow  was  festoon- 
mg  the  pine-trees  and  the  wind  was  blowing  bitterly, 
she  would  regard  the  view  from  the  warm  security 
of  the  library,  and  her  heart  would  be  filled  with 
misgiving.  Not  for  herself,  oh;  dear  no;  she  had 
met  the  buffets  of  the  world  before,  as  her  mother 
had— but  this  boy,  this  son  of  predestination;  this 
ought  to  be  his  world,  midst  books,  and  culture,  and 
wise  counsels,  away  from  the  ugliness  and  terror  of 
sordid  strife.  She  would  lie  awake  at  night,  shudder- 
ing at  the  forbidding  future. 

"  You  're  getting  soft,  Fancy,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"You've  been  pampered  and  spoilt  for  too  long. 
Even  now  you  get  moods  when  your  soul  cries  out 
for  the  'fleshpots  of  Egypt,'  as  the  old  man  said." 

At  Christmas  Mrs.  Myrtle  went  away  to  stay  with 
relatives  in  Yorkshire,  but  she  gave  Barbara  permis- 
sion to  ask  any  friend  down  to  stay  with  her,  and  so 
she  naturally  wrote  to  Isabel.  The  sketch  that  Isabel 
had  been  playing  in  having  come  to  an  end,  her 
friend  came  down  and  stayed  a  week.  Isabel  was 
much  impressed  with  the  house  and  the  baby  and  the 
food  and  the  servants.  But  on  the  second  evening 
she  said: 

"Don't  we  get  anything  to  drink  here,  old  girlt" 

And  Barbara  had  to  acknowledge  that  they  didn't. 
Mrs.  Myrtle  was  a  teetotaler,  although  she  had  made 
no  objection  to  Barbara 's  daily  glass  of  port,  which 
the  doctor  had  prescribed. 

1 1  Do  you  mean  to  say, ' '  persisted  Isabel, ' '  we  can 't 
get  a  bottle  of  fizz  on  Christmas  Day?" 


256  HEARTBEAT 

Barbara  felt  a  little  uncomfortable  about  this. 
She  knew  her  friend  would  expect  to  celebrate  this 
important  day  in  her  accustomed  manner;  so  she 
arranged  that  they  should  send  down  to  the  inn  in 
the  nearest  village  and  make  a  few  purchases  on  their 
own.  She  was  now  walking  again  and  almost  feeling 
her  old  self. 

She  then  became  aware  of  a  curious  aspect  of  her 
friendship  with  Isabel.  In  the  scurry  of  town,  with 
plenty  of  excitement  and  social  change,  their  brief 
chats  about  each  other  and  current  events  were  en- 
tirely satisfying.  But  in  this  isolated  spot,  in  the 
pure  clear  air,  amidst  the  solemnity  of  pines,  these 
two  actresses  became  distinctly  bored  within  a  few 
days.  The  evenings  were  long  and  dark  and  dull; 
and,  curiously  enough,  Barbara  noticed  it  more  with 
Isabel  than  when  alone.  And  the  result  was,  they 
sent  down  to  the  inn  and  made  more  purchases. 
They  kept  Christmas  Day  royally.  In  the  ordinary 
course  of  events  this  fact  need  never  have  come  to 
the  ears  of  the  lady  of  the  house;  but  it  happened 
that  the  cook  was  an  extremely  religious  and  ab- 
stemious person.  She  was  a  Seventh  Day  Adventist, 
and  when  Mrs.  Myrtle  returned  a  week  later,  she 
felt  it  her  duty  to  conduct  her  to  the  larder  and  show 
her  an  array  of  bottles,  the  contents  of  which  her 
two  guests  had  consumed  in  her  absence.  There 
were  three  champagne  bottle,  three  port,  and  a  dozen 
and  a  half  empty  stout  bottles.  And  the  spectacle 
saddened  Mrs.  Myrtle's  heart.  Isabel  had  by  that 
time  departed,  but  she  went  straight  to  Barbara,  and 
said  gently : 

"I'm  afraid,  dear,  your  friend  has  been  leading 
you  into  bad  ways." 


DIASTOLE  257 

Barbara  did  not  at  first  grasp  the  purport  of  this 
accusation.  She  looked  perplexed  until  Mrs  Myrtle 
added: 

"All  those  bottles  in  the  larder." 

Then  she  knew  that  the  truth  had  been  detected. 
At  the  same  time  she  was  not  willing  to  throw  all 
the  blame  on  Isabel,  and  she  replied  a  little  sullenly : 

"It  was  Christmas-time — I  have  unhappy  mem- 
ories." 

And  Mrs.  Myrtle  thought: 

"Good  heavens!  this  child  is  the  responsible  one, 
then."  And  she  answered: 

"It's  so  bad  for  you,  my  dear.  One  cannot  cure 
unhappy  memories  in  that  way." 

The  incident  created  a  definite  chasm  between  the 
two  women.  Mrs.  Myrtle  was  disappointed.  Simple 
and  abstemious  in  her  mode  of  life,  the  sight  of 
those  bottles  conveyed  to  her  the  record  of  an  un- 
bridled orgy.  It  was  a  thing  she  could  not  under- 
stand: but  what  made  it  worse  was  that  the  affair 
had  been  conducted  behind  her  back.  Barbara  was 
not  to  be  trusted.  Could  a  woman  like  that  be  trusted 
to  bring  up  a  child  properly? 

Barbara  on  her  part  felt  a  half-savage  resent- 
ment against  her  hostess.  She  was  annoyed  at  the 
discovery.  Of  course,  she  was  in  the  wrong,  but— 
oh,  it  was  all  very  well  for  Mrs.  Myrtle ;  all  the  in- 
fluences of  her  life  had  been  towards  refinement  and 
restraint.  She  hadn't  come  up  against  the  experi- 
ences of  Isabel  and  herself.  They  were  indeed  as 
the  poles  asunder.  The  reflection  hardened  her  de- 
cision to  depart  as  soon  as  possible. 

Mrs.  Myrtle  returned  to  town  during  the  second 


258  HEARTBEAT 

week  in  January,  and  the  day  following  her  depar- 
ture Barbara  wrote  to  her  as  follows : 
MY  DEAR  MRS.  MYRTLE, 

I  do  not  know  how  I  can  thank  you  for  all  your  kindness  to  me. 
You  have  been  one  of  the  few  real  friends  I  have  ever  met.  But 
I  feel  that  the  time  has  come  when  I  must  get  back  to  my  own 
life,  whatever  it  is  to  be.  Baby  and  I  will  therefore  be  leaving 
here  to-morrow,  and  we  shall  be  going  to  my  old  address  in  Notting 
Hill.  Please,  dear  Mrs.  Myrtle,  accept  my  best  thanks  for  all  your 
loving  kindness.  Your  friend, 

BARBARA  POWER. 

Having  sent  this  letter,  she  went  upstairs  and 
kissed  the  small  Caleb  on  his  smooth  skull,  and 
whispered : 

"Old  son,  we've  got  to  go  back  and  face  it.  This 
is  all  swank,  you  know,  us  living  here.  I  wish  you 
could  stop,  old  boy.  I  love  you  so;  but  it  can't  be 
done.  We're  poor  folk." 

A  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning,  a  telegram  came 
from  Mrs.  Myrtle : 

Please  wait  till  I  arrive  coming  this  morning  very  urgent. 

"What's  all  this  about?"  thought  Barbara.  She 
decided  to  wait,  but  she  continued  her  packing. 

XI. 

WHEN  Mrs.  Myrtle  came  into  the  hall,  it  was  ap- 
parent that  her  normal  air  of  calm  assurance  was 
ruffled  by  some  inward  agitation.  She  found  Bar- 
bara packing  in  her  bedroom,  and  for  the  first  time 
Barbara's  presence  slightly  unstrung  her.  She 
smiled  graciously,  and  asked  her  to  come  downstairs 
to  the  library.  Once  ensconced  there,  she  sat  rather 
rigidly  on  the  edge  of  an  easy-chair,  and  said: 

"Barbara,  I  want  to  make  a  proposition  to  you, 
and  whatever  you  think  of  it,  I  want  you  to  believe 
that  I  am  thinking  of  the  best  interests  of  us  all." 


DIASTOLE  259 

Us  all !    Then  she  was  coming  into  it  herself! 
"Please  don't  be  angry  or  shocked  till  you  have 
heard  me  out.    Briefly,  it  is  that  I  offer  to  adopt 
your  son." 

"What!"  Barbara  almost  screamed  the  word, 
and  her  eyes  blazed.  Before  Mrs.  Myrtle  had  had 
time  to  qualify  her  appeal,  she  was  having  shouted 
at  her: 

"Oh,  so  you— you  too,  even  you— had  an  ulterior 
motive." 

The  little  burst  of  anger  steadied  the  elder  woman. 
She  said  calmly : 

"I  assure  you,  the  idea  only  germinated  after  my 
return  at  Christmas.  I  only  came  to  a  decision 
when  I  received  your  letter  this  morning. ' ' 

Barbara  searched  her  face  keenly.  Yes,  she  was 
speaking  the  truth  all  right.  Well? 

"Of  course  I  know  it  is  a  stupendous  suggestion 
to  make  to  a  mother.  It  is  also  idle  to  deny  that  I 
am  thinking  of  myself,  too.  Oh,  my  dear,  I  want  a 
child  so  much.  I  would  do  everything  for  him.  He 
should  have  the  best  of  everything :  training,  educa- 
tion, choice  of  career.  He  should  lead  a  clean, 
healthy  life  in  the  best  surroundings.  He  should 
travel  and  have  friends  chosen  from  the  wisest  and 
/best.  He  should  have  opportunities  and  large  hori- 
zons  " 

"Yes,  yes,  that's  all  very  well!"  shouted  Barbara. 
"But  what  about  me?" 

"I  should,  of  course,  compensate  you,  my  dear,  to 
my  fullest  ability.  On  the  other  hand,  since  you 
talk  about  yourself  do  you  think  that  you — 

"I  know,  you  think  because  I've  got  no  money, 
and  because  I — because  you  found  some  champagne 


260  HEARTBEAT 

bottles  in  the  larder — you  think  I'm  not  a  fit  person 
to  bring  up  a  son." 

"My  dear,  I'm  not  criticising  you.  But  you  can't 
deny  it's  going  to  be  difficult.  You're  a  dear  little 
person  but  you  are  what  I  should  call — unstable. 
Even  the  child,  you  have  confessed  to  me,  is  the  son 
of  a  man  who  was  not  your  husband.  He  starts 
with  rather  a  handicap.  I  can  at  least  launch  him 
into  the  world  with  an  honourable  name." 

"Name!  You  mean  to  say  you  would  adopt  him, 
and  pretend  he  was  your  own  son!" 

"That  is  the  proposal  I  make.  I  do  not  wish  to 
coerce  you.  It  is  for  you  to  decide,  and  please  take 
your  time  over  it. 

"I  don't  want  any  time.  I  can  tell  you  now.  I'm 
damned  if  I '11  do  it." 

Mrs.  Myrtle  smiled  sadly. 

"Please  don't  be  angry  with  me.  I'm  so  sorry. 
Let  us  say  no  more  about  it,  then. ' ' 

And  the  two  women  kissed  affectionately. 

That  afternoon,  however,  Barbara  returned  with 
the  young  Caleb  to  Netting  Hill,  and  the  grim 
struggle  began.  Isabel  was  "out"  again,  and  not  in 
the  best  of  tempers.  When  Barbara  told  her  about 
Mrs.  Myrtle's  offer,  the  two  friends  nearly  quar- 
relled for  the  first  time. 

"You  do  throw  away  your  chances,"  Isabel 
grumbled.  She  was  not  particularly  enamoured  of 
the  idea  of  having  a  two  months'  old  baby  in  their 
congested  lodgings. 

"Chances!"  retorted  Barbara.  "Would  you  sell 
your  baby?" 

"It  isn't  selling  it.    It's  giving  it  a  great  oppor- 


DIASTOLE  261 

tunity  which  it's  otherwise  going  to  miss.    Besides, 
it  doesn't  really  know  you  yet  " 
"It  does!" 

"No,  it  doesn't.  As  long  as  someone  gives  it  its 
bottle  it  doesn't  care.  If  it  was  a  year  or  two  older 
it  would  be  different.  Did  she  say  how  much  she'd 
give  you?" 

"No;  I  never  discussed  the  matter." 
"She  might  have  offered  you  a  thousand  a  year. 
They  say  her  husband's  nearly  a  millionaire." 
"I  wouldn't  take  ten  thousand  a  year." 
Isabel    sniffed,    and    repeated    her    accustomed 
formula : 

' '  You  beat  me,  Fancy. ' ' 

The  immediate  difficulties  were  manifest.  To  re- 
turn to  the  pearl-stringing  industry  was  an  utter  im- 
possibility. A  two-months'  baby  requires  the  con- 
stant attention  of  at  least  one  person.  It  prefers 
two.  If  she  hired  a  woman  to  look  after  it  whilst 
she  was  at  the  business,  she  would  have  to  pay  her 
as  much  as  she  herself  was  paid  by  Madame  Guillard. 
Isabel  was  already  in  debt.  The  hundred  and  twenty 
pounds  was  intact,  but  when  that  was  gone,  what  was 
to  be  done?  With  the  utmost  economy  they  could 
-not  expect  it  to  last  more  than  a  few  months. 

It  must  be  said  for  Isabel  that,  after  the  first  un- 
pleasantness, she  behaved  well.  She  curbed  her 
natural  extravagance,  and  every  day  she  went  round 
to  the  little  agents  and  waited  patiently  for  inter- 
views. And  when  Barbara  became  fretful,  she  al- 
ways cheered  her  with : 

"Never  mind,  old  girl;  I'll  get  a  shop  soon,  and 
then  we '11  be  all  right." 


262  HEARTBEAT 

But  theatrical  things  were  in  a  bad  way  just  then, 
and  Isabel  was  not  so  young  as  she  had  been.  The 
baby  was  a  source  of  delight  and  terror.  Sometimes 
when  he  cried  she  thought  she  would  go  out  of  her 
mind.  Of  his  upbringing  she  was  profoundly  ignor- 
ant. The  landlady  was  consulted,  and  proved  a 
mine  of  comfort.  The  only  trouble  was  that  she  had 
forgotten  most  of  the  details  of  baby-craft,  because, 
as  she  explained,  ' '  she  buried  her  last  sixteen  years 
come  Easter  Sunday."  Barbara  was  always  in 
dread  of  doing  the  wrong  thing.  The  marvellous  or- 
ganism of  his  structure  was  so  delicately  adjusted, 
she  became  convinced  that  his  hold  on  life  was 
slenderer  than  it  really  was..  His  cries  sounded  pro- 
tests against  her  ignorance  and  irresponsible  mother- 
hood. 

No  word  came  from  Mrs.  Myrtle.  One  evening 
Isabel  said : 

1  'At  a  pinch,  I  suppose,  you  could  always  touch 
that  Mrs.  Myrtle  for  a  bit." 

1  'Oh,  no,  I  wouldn't  do  that,"  Barbara  snapped. 
"It  would  be  like  backing  down.  I  was  rather  rude 
to  her,  you  see.  It  would  be  an  awful  climb-down. ' ' 

Another  evening  Isabel  came  home  and  said : 

"I've  heard  news  of  George.  You  can  get  a  di- 
vorce if  you  like." 

"What  is  it?" 

' '  He 's  come  back  from  Italy.  They  say  he 's  living 
at  a  private  hotel  in  Knightsbridge  with  Queenie 
Myland,  a  flapper  in  Covent  Garden  pantomime." 

Barbara  shivered,  but  she  said  quietly : 

"I  don't  care.  What's  the  good  of  a  divorce  to 
me?" 


DIASTOLE  263 

"You  might  want  to  get  married  again." 

Barbara  laughed  bitterly,  and  put  on  the  kettle  for 
the  baby's  bottle. 

Two  months  slipped  by,  and  the  funds  were  re- 
duced to  less  than  forty  pounds.  They  could  not  be 
as  economical  as  they  ought  to  have  been.  At  times 
conditions  became  unendurable,  and  Barbara  would 
send  down  the  road  for  a  bottle  of  red  wine  or 
whisky.  At  other  times  she  would  leave  the  baby 
in  charge  of  the  landlady,  and  she  and  Isabel  would 
penetrate  to  a  restaurant  in  Soho,  where  they  could 
obtain  hot,  rich,  and  uncommon  food,  filleted  herrings 
in  oil,  coquille  of  sole  with  cheese,  braised  chicken, 
savouries  and  peche  Melba. 

"Damn  it  all,"  Barbara  would  say,  "one  must 
live." 

On  one  of  these  occasions  they  ran  into  Julius 
Banstead.  He  was  dining  with  a  fair  girl  at  an  ad- 
joining table,  and  they  didn't  notice  him  till  the  meal 
had  been  ordered.  When  he  caught  sight  of  Barbara, 
he  came  deliberately  across  to  her,  and  in  his  round 
assertive  voice  exclaimed: 

"How  are  you,  Miss  Telling!  We  haven't  met 
for  a  long  time." 

Barbara  felt  her  personality  dwindle  under  his 
gaze.  She  replied  limply: 

"I 'mall  right,  thanks." 

"I'm  running  the  Charing  Cross  Theatre  now. 
Won't  you  give  me  a  call  one  day?' 

He  fixed  her  with  his  searching  glance.    Yes,  she 
had  heard  about  that.    Banstead  had  got  hold  of 
rich  man,  a  sleeping  partner.    He  was  now  a  powe 
in  the  theatrical  world.    The  temptation  was  obvious, 


264  HEARTBEAT 

and  the  more  dangerous  on  account  of  its  abruptness. 
And  yet  some  instinct  prompted  her  to  say : 

"You  never  used  to  think  much  of  my  per- 
formances." 

Banstead  laughed  and  displayed  his  fine  teeth. 
He  suppressed  the  idle  temptation  to  say:  "My  dear 
girl,  I  hadn't  thought  of  offering  you  a  part." 

Instead  of  that,  he  answered : 

* '  Oh,  come  now,  you  misjudge  me.  I  know  we  used 
to  quarrel,  but  I  never  underestimated  your  abili- 
ties." 

Isabel,  who  had  drunk  two  cocktails,  exclaimed : 

"Oh,  Fancy,  do  go.    I'll  look  after  the  baby." 

Banstead  already  had  a  diary  out  and  was  re- 
marking : 

"What  about  Tuesday  at  three?" 

Then  Barbara  felt  angry  with  this  importunity 
of  fate.  She  was,  perhaps,  unfair  to  Isabel.  Julius 
might  offer  her  a  part  at  twenty  pounds  a  week,  and 
she  could  keep  a  nurse  and  live  in  comfort.  But  no, 
she  knew  her  Julius  too  well.  She  had  no  illusions 
on  the  score  of  his  attitude  towards  her.  He  thought 
he  had  her  easily  trapped.  She  tossed  her  head,  took 
a  sip  of  claret,  and  said  firmly : 

"No,  I'm  not  doing  anything  like  that  now,  thanks. 
I  have  a  baby  to  look  after.  I've  given  up  the 
stage." 

"Well,  then,  just  as  an  old  friend." 

"I  don't  recognise  you  as  a  friend,  either  ancient 
or  modern. ' ' 

This  might  be  called  the  retort  conclusive.  Ban- 
stead  grinned  superciliously,  snapped  his  diary  to, 
and  returned  to  the  fair  girl  without  a  word. 


DIASTOLE  265 

' '  God !  you  are  a  one.  You  do  chuck  things  away,  *  * 
whispered  Isabel  tearfully. 

But  Barbara's  jaw  was  set.  She  was  like  a  be- 
sieged animal  that  still  has  ground  to  defend. 

xn. 

THE  day  was  rapidly  approaching  when  the  last 
bulwark  would  fall.  Forty  pounds,  thirty  pounds, 
fifteen  pounds  and  some  bills  owing.  In  that  dark 
hour  Isabel  suddenly  got  a  small  engagement  in  a 
musical  comedy  at  Hammersmith.  Her  salary  was 
to  be  three  pounds  ten  a  week,  but  from  her  jubilia- 
tion  and  high  spirits  it  might  have  been  going  to  be 
thirty  pounds. 

"We'll  be  all  right  now,  Fancy." 

Poor  dear  Isabel!  Her  loyalty  was  pathetic. 
Somehow  this  insignificant  stroke  of  fortune  added 
fuel  to  the  flames  of  Barbara's  despair.  "Was  she 
going  to  sponge  on  Isabel — she  and  Caleb's  son! 

One  night  she  met  a  rich  man  from  the  Midlands 
in  that  same  restaurant.  He  was  to  all  appearances 
a  decent,  healthy  animal,  probably  with  a  wife  and 
children  in  some  busy  Midland  town.  He  made  love 
to  her  in  a  straightforward  gentlemanly  way,  with- 
out pretence  or  vulgarity.  He  complained  of  his 
loneliness,  and  appealed  to  Barbara  rather  senti- 
mentally for  help.  He  gave  her  his  card,  and  said  his 
name  was  Theodore  Moffat,  and  he  owned  terra-cotta 
works  at  Tamworth,  and  rented  a  flat  in  St.  James*. 
He  was  obviously  probing  to  see  whether  the  two 
girls  were  members  of  the  demi-monde,  and  yet  he 
did  not  treat  them  with  disrespect.  He  explained 


266  HEARTBEAT 

that  he  had  to  spend  three  months  every  winter  in 
London,  and  he  had  few  friends  and  was  frankly 
bored.  Would  they  take  pity  on  him  and  visit  him 
at  his  flat?  Barbara  made  it  quite  clear  that  they 
were  not  members  of  the  demi-monde,  but  they  liked 
his  face,  and  that  they  would  come  and  call  on  him 
together — if  he  promised  to  behave  himself. 

They  went  one  afternoon,  and  Theodore  made  no 
attempt  to  conceal  the  attraction  which  Barbara  had 
for  him.  He  badgered  her  with  questions,  which 
Isabel  answered.  It  was  easy  to  worm  out  of  Isabel 
the  state  of  the  two  girls'  finances,  and  when  the 
story  was  told  he  leaned  towards  Barbara  and  said : 

"I  wish  you'd  let  me  help  you." 

"Why  should  you!" 

"I  like  you,  and  I  can  afford  it." 

"No;  it's  not  done.  Why  should  you  give  some- 
thing for  nothing?" 

"Well,  you  could " 

"Yes,  I  know  well  enough.  I  could  be  nice  to 
you." 

"No-o,  I  don't  insist.  I'm  really  not  that  sort. 
j » 

*  *  It  can 't  be  done,  old  boy.    Besides,  I  'm  not  free. ' ' 
"What  do  you  mean,  you're  not  free?" 
She  couldn't  exactly  explain.    She  was  a  desperate 
woman.    Here  was  the  easiest  way  in  the  world  to 
secure  some  sort  of  protection.    But — could  she  keep 
Caleb's  son  in  that  way?    The  man  from  the  Mid- 
lands nodded. 

"A  deal's  a  deal,"  he  said,  "and  a  bargain's  a 
bargain.  You  have  my  card.  Come  and  see  me  if 


DIASTOLE  267 

you're  in  difficulties.     I've  never  forced  a  woman 
against  her  will,  or  let  in  a  friend." 

"I  think  you're  a  decent  sort,"'  commented  Bar- 
bara, and  the  two  girls  went  away. 

By  the  time  Isabel's  rehearsals  were  over,  their 
united  resources  amounted  to  twenty-three  shillings 
in  cash,  and  eleven  pounds  odd  in  debts.  Moreover, 
clothes  were  getting  shabby,  and  holes  in  stockings 
unmendable.  The  baby  cost  fifteen  shillings  a  week 
in  Allenby's,  beyond  incidental  expenses  at  the 
chemist  and  the  hire  of  a  pram. 

" Never  mind,"  said  Isabel;  "I  shall  get  three 
quid  and  a  half  next  Saturday  night." 

When  Isabel  said  that,  Barbara  knew  she  was 
beaten.  Tears  swam  in  her  eyes,  and  she  went  to 
bed. 

"I've  been  undermined  somewhere,"  she  said  to 
the  darkness.  "I  haven't  the  grit  to  stand  a  life  of 
poverty  and  begging.  I've  seen  you  through  all 
right,  though,  little  son.  Thank  God !  you  won 't  re- 
member me." 

The  next  day  she  wrote  to  Mrs.  Myrtle,  and  asked 
for  an  appointment.  A  telegram  bade  her  to  go  that 
afternoon.  She  found  her  patroness  in  the  morning- 
room  at  South  Street.  Barbara's  face  was  tense  and 
set.  She  said  sternly: 

"I've  come  to  give  in;  to  offer  you  my  son." 
The  elder  woman's  face  lighted  with  a  quiet  exal- 
tation, tempered  by  pity  for  her  visitor.  It  was  a 
situation  which  required  all  her  tact  and  restraint. 
She  solved  it  by  kissing  Barbara  affectionately  and 
whispering : 


268  HEARTBEAT 

"Oh,  my  dear— you  will  allow  me  to  compensate 
you — handsomely  ? ' ' 

She  was  surprised  by  the  passion  of  protest  this 
offer  evoked.  Barbara  almost  pushed  her  away,  and 
cried  out : 

"Oh,  no,  no.  That  is  what  I  will  not  have.  Do 
you  understand  me?  I  haven't  come  here  to  sell  my 
son!  I've  come  here  to  hand  him  to  you  as  a  sacred 
trust.  Not  a  pound,  not  a  penny  will  I  touch.  I've 
come  to  you  because  I'm  beaten,  not  only  financially, 
but  morally.  I'm  a  rotten  woman  and  you're  a  good 
one.  I  have  nothing  to  offer  him  but  cramped 
poverty,  the  influence  of  vicious  nature,  narrow 
friends  and  outlooks.  But  you — you  talked  to  me  of 
wide  horizons,  of  great  opportunities  of  the  pure 
sweet  air  among  the  pines.  That  is  what  I  give  him 
for,  because— because — I  somehow  believe  he  will  be 
— rather  fine." 

Her  voice  broke  over  this  last  statement.  Then 
she  continued  excitedly: 

"I  am  a  kind  of  instrument,  do  you  see? — of  some 
dumb  fate.  A  friend,  a  very  dear  friend  of  mine 
spoke  of  a  spiritual  Nemesis.  Perhaps  that  is  the 
end,  in  my  poor  way,  that  I  am  serving.  I  wanted 
a  son  more  than  anything  in  the  world.  He  has  the 
best  of  everything  that  is  in  me.  Where  my  mother 
and  I  failed,  let  him  succeed.  Where  my  mother 
and  I  suffered,  let  him  rejoice.  This  cannot  be  done 
without  the  true  environment,  the  wide  horizons,  as 
you  call  them.  This  is  a  sacred  trust  I  offer  you, 
Mrs.  Myrtle.  Do  you  accept  it?" 

"I  accept  it,  my  friend." 

"Say  to  me,  'I  swear  to  adopt  your  son,  and  to 


DIASTOLE  269 

educate  him,  and  to  make  it  the  passion  of  my  life 
that  he  shall  be  a  good  man.'  " 

"I  swear  to  adopt  your  son,  Barbara,  to  educate, 
him,  and  to  make  it  the  passion  of  my  life  that  he 
shall  be  a  good  man." 

"There  is  only  one  thing  more." 

"Tell  me,  my  dear." 

"You  shall  call  him  Caleb." 

"He  shall  be  called  Caleb." 

She  wept  then,  and  Mrs.  Myrtle  put  her  arm  round 
her  and  said: 

"Oh,  my  dear,  I  had  no  suspicion  that  you  had 
so  noble  a  soul.  You  wouldn't— I  suppose  you 
wouldn't  sometimes  come  and  see  him?" 

"No,  no,  I  couldn't  do  that.  I  couldn't  stand  it. 
The  gift  is  absolute.  Whilst  I  live  I  shall  watch  you 
and  him  from  afar.  He  will  never  know  his  mother. ' ' 

That  afternoon  a  nurse  arrived  in  a  cab,  and 
Master  Caleb  was  taken  away  to  South  Street.  And 
Barbara  lay  alone  in  the  darkness,  murmuring: 

"Oh,  my  son — my  son— my  little  son!" 

And  Isabel  came  in  late,  and  moved  softly,  know- 
ing of  her  friend's  anguish. 

"It  all  seems  damned  unfair,"  she  said  medita- 
tively. "Men  can  have  no  end  of  a  good  time.  It's 
always  sugar  or  dirt  with  them.  It  it's  sugar,  they 
share  a  little  with  us.  If  it's  dirt,  they  throw  it  to 
us  and  run  away.  I  had  an  awful  job  to-night  with 
young  Stephens — 

"And  God  sends  a  messenger  to  our  door,  raur 
mured  Barbara,  "and  says,  'There  is  no  answer.' 
That  amused  Caleb.  I  remember 

"What's  that,  dear!" 


270  HEARTBEAT 

"I  was  talking  in  my  sleep,  darling." 

Isabel  turned  out  the  light.  And  these  strange 
bedfellows,  who  had  drifted  together  and  formed  so 
great  an  affection  for  each  other,  and  yet  with  so 
little  they  could  really  share,  wandered  apart  in  the 
darkness,  each  occupied  with  her  own  thoughts. 

Isabel  was  thinking: 

"Poor  darling  old  Fancy!  It  must  be  a  blow  to 
her.  It  '11  make  it  much  more  comfy,  though,  having 
the  brat  out  of  the  way.  I  do  hope  she  gets  a  shop 
soon."  .  :,.*:._  Jjf9.$i 

And  Barbara  was  thinking: 

' '  0  thou  God,  who  are  you  ?  What  are  you  ?  Have 
I  done  right?  Oh,  please  protect  him  and  make  a 
fine  man  of  him." 

XIII. 

THE  morning  brought  a  condition  of  utter  lethargy. 
She  was  worn  out.  The  child's  crying  echoed 
through  her  tired  memory.  He  would  be  crying 
now.  Who  would  be  looking  after  him?  Wouldn't 
he  miss  her?  Wasn't  there  something  which  would 
always  tell  him?  Three  times  she  started  up  to  go 
and  get  him  back.  She  couldn't  stand  it.  Mrs. 
Myrtle  would  be  bound  to  give  him  back  if  she  in- 
sisted. She  had  signed  nothing. 

Her  limbs  ached  so,  she  could  hardly  move.  The 
meagre  room  became  a  dim  tabernacle  of  remorse. 
Isabel  was  breathing  heavily,  her  hair  all  frowsy, 
scattered  on  the  pillow,  her  mouth  open.  And  she 
once  was  beautiful.  The  long  hours  trailed  by,  un- 
broken 'by  anything  except  -Isabel's  'snoring,  'the 


DIASTOLE  271 

cries  of  tradesmen,  the  clatter  of  milk-carts  It 
must  have  been  past  ten  when  Barbara  suddenly  lost 
control.  She  screamed  out: 

* '  Oh,  damn  you,  Isabel,  wake  up !  Get  up ! " 
Isabel  opened  her  eyes  in  amased  surprise  Bar- 
bara  was  hysterical,  laughing  and  swearing  and  cry- 
ing at  the  same  time.  Isabel  became  alarmed  She 
dressed  quickly  and  ran  out  to  find  a  doctor  The 
doctor  happened  to  be  starting  on  his  rounds,  and 
he  came  at  once  and  examined  the  patient. 

"What's  she  been  doing?"  he  said  a  little  im- 
patiently. < '  There 's  nothing  wrong  with  her  except 
hysteria.  Her  nerves  are  all  unstrung.  She  ought 
to  go  away  for  a  few  weeks  to  get  a  complete  rest 
and  change." 

"Yes?"  said  Barbara.  "Where  do  you  think? 
Madeira  or  Monte  Carlo?" 

Before  he  had  time  to  reply  she  flung  herself  on 
to  the  bed,  and  laughed  and  cried  alternately.  Isabel 
put  her  arms  round  her  and  wept  also.  The  doctor 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  wrote  out  a  prescription, 
and  went  away. 

After  he  had  gone  she  quieted  down.  For  two 
days  and  nights  she  lay  in  a  kind  of  coma,  completely 
oblivious  to  her  surroundings.  Isabel  waited  on  her, 
but  she  was  unaware  of  it.  Everything  was  finished. 
She  was  slipping  away  into  a  welcoming  darkness. 
In  dreams  she  visited  unfamiliar  places,  talked  with 
unfamiliar  people.  She  could  not  see  the  people,  but 
she  could  hear  them.  They  were  not  unkind,  only- 
strange,  bewildering.  They  wanted  to  be  kind  to 
her,  and  they  talked  eagerly  in  low-pitched  voices. 


272  HEARTBEAT 

Hands  touched  hers,  lips  were  pressed  against  her 
brow. 

Then,  suddenly,  she  was  a  child  again,  playing 
with  dolls  in  the  large  nursery  at  High  Barrow. 
Miss  Ridde  was  there.  She  could  see  her  face  above 
the  fire-guard.  Her  eyes  glued  upon  a  novel,  she  was 
saying : 

"I  see,  dear.  So  Mrs.  Wilkins  is  coming  to  have 
tea  with  the  postman." 

Miss  Riddie  said  that,  but  she  wasn't  thinking 
about  what  she  was  saying.  She  was  too  immersed 
in  the  romantic  story.  Poor  Miss  Ridde !  With  an 
unromantic  figure  she  appeared,  with  her  thick 
spectacles  and  broad,  flat  nose.  And  yet — why 
shouldn't  she  dream  of  knights  and  ladies  and  gal- 
lant deeds? 

Miss  Ridde  had  closed  her  novel  with  a  snap.  She 
was  wiping  her  eyes. 

"Come  now,  dear,"  she  was  saying.  "Get  your 
little  cape  and  the  brown  fur  bonnet.  I'm  going  to 
take  you  down  to  the  House  to  hear  your  dear  father. 
Your  father  is  a  very  great  man,  a  very  great  man 
indeed.  He  is  the  Chancellor  of  the  Exchequer.  He 
has  all  the  money  of  the  country  in  his  charge.  Think 
of  that!" 

They  were  driving  in  a  carriage  through  the  streets 
of  London.  It  was  a  dim  winter  afternoon.  The 
pavements  were  wet,  and  they  reflected  the  lights  of 
street  lamps  in  perspective.  And  there  was  the 
river,  and  the  lights  on  the  other  side,  and  barges 
feeling  their  way  along  stealthily.  There  were  large 
policemen,  and  big,  official-looking  men  looking  her 


DIASTOLE  273 

up  and  down.    And  she  wanted  to  nudge  Miss  Ridde 
and  say: 

''Tell  them  about  me  and  who  my  father  is." 

But  they  were  already  in  the  hushed  hall.  There 
were  the  rows  and  rows  of  elderly  men,  just  as  she 
had  seen  them  once  before.  There  was  the  man  in 
the  wig — a  kind  of  umpire ;  and  there  was  the  brass 
mace.  A  mace !  Yes,  yes,  she  remembered  about  the 
mace — the  symbol  of  ordered  authority.  And  there 
they  were  all  listening  intently  to  her  father.  But 
no,  that  was  a  queer,  funny  thing.  They  were  all 
listening  intently,  sure  enough,  but  it  wasn't  her 
father  they  were  listening  to.  The  speaker  was  a 
young  man  and  he  was  talking  about  "shibboleths." 
He  had  them  all  right,  as  theatrical  folk  say.  He 
had  gripped  them. 

"Surely  the  honourable  member  does  not  expect 
us  to  return  to  the  shibboleths  of  the  Powerscourt 
tradition?" 

Eh?  What  was  that?  Powerscourt?  Shibbo- 
leths? She  wanted  to  ask  Miss  Bidde,  but  queerly 
enough  Miss  Ridde  was  no  longer  there.  Instead, 
by  her  side  sat  an  old  lady  with  a  gentle,  dis- 
tinguished face,  and  she  smiled  at  Barbara  and  said : 

1 '  Well,  my  dear  ?    Are  you  satisfied  ? ' ' 

Of  course  Barbara  knew  her.  It  was  Mrs.  Myrtle. 
Mrs.  Myrtle!  Well,  what  did  she  mean  when  she 
said:  "Well,  my  dear,  are  you  satisfied?' 

She  looked  again  at  the  young  man  speaking, 
was  tall  and  loose-limbed,  with  a  broad,  strong  face, 
the  blue  eyes  widely  set,  the  brown  hair  t 
ruffled.    There  was  about  him  the  atmosphere 
"wide  horizons." 


274  HEARTBEAT 

She  knew  then. 

She  wanted  to  scream  out:  " Caleb — my  son!  my 
son!" 

But  she  could  not  scream  or  cry;  she  could  only 
sit  there,  clutching — clutching. 

He  was  speaking  again : 

"  Those  of  us  who  passed  through  the  great  war, 
which  happened  long  ago,  hardly  need  reminding  of 
the  horrors  of  it.  Its  physical  record  is  set  down 
for  eternity  to  read.  But,  may  I  ask,  did  nothing 
come  out  of  it  ?  Men  and  women  pass  away,  but  ideas 
take  their  revenge." 

Yes,  yes,  that  was  it !  That  was  what  Caleb  would 
say.  What  did  he  call  it?  Spiritual — something 
spiritual — spiritual  Nemesis !  Not  only  in  wars  .  .  . 

The  House  had  vanished.  She  was  all  alone  on 
the  top  of  a  hill  amongst  the  bracken.  Her  feet  were 
bleeding  and  her  limbs  ached.  She  had  walked  far 
and  the  day  was  closing  in.  And  yet  she  was  not 
unhappy;  neither  was  she  entirely  alone.  Her 
thoughts  were  always  responded  to  by  a  large,  com- 
forting voice : 

"I  am  weary,  broken,  at  my  journey's  end,"  she 
said. 

"Journeys  do  not  end,"  said  the  voice.  "Nothing 
ends.  Everything  flows  on — irresistibly." 

"Yes,  I  see  that,"  replied  Barbara  quietly.  "And 
yet  I  am  a  wicked  woman.  I  cannot  escape  my  own 
weaknesses.  Oh,  listen  to  me,  stranger,  I  gave  to 
the  world  a  son.  When  I  say  gave,  I  mean  literally. 
I  gave  him  away  to  a  better  woman  than  myself  as 
a  sacred  trust.  I  have  seen  him  in  the  long  here- 
after. With  my  hair  greying  I  looked  down  into  the 


DIASTOLE  275 

hall  where  he  stood.  I  was  a  stranger — a  distin- 
guished stranger.  Think  of  that!  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  a  woman  being  a  distinguished  stranger  to 
her  own  son?  He  will  never  know  his  mother — 

There  was  a  short  silence,  whilst  her  thoughts  ran 
riot.  Then  the  voice  capped  her  reflections : 

"So,  you  see,  my  dear,  the  pauper's  grave  in  Liv- 
erpool becomes  the  centre  round  which  a  new  world 
now  revolves.  Ideas  take  their  revenge." 

The  hill  was  aglow  with  the  amber  light  of  the 
sun  or  bracken  and  sand. 

"God  is  watching  you,"  said  the  voice. 

"Who  is  God?"  she  asked  calmly. 

"When  everything  has  been  given,  and  everything 
taken  away,  God  is  the  pity  which  remains." 

A  strange  sense  of  comfort  stole  over  her.  She 
was  not  alone.  One  is  never  alone,  perhaps.  Her 
body  relaxed.  She  passed  into  a  dreamless  sleep. 

XIV. 

IT  was  early  morning  of  the  third  day  after  her  col- 
lapse    Her  mind  was  perfectly  clear,  nakedly  f 
of  illusions.    The  cold  morning  light,  the  ugly  wall- 
paper, Isabel  snoring  noisily.  Well!  She  had  visited 
strange  places  and  she  had  come  back. 

She  was  still  Fancy,  Fancy,  with  all  the  weight  of 
calamity  upon  her;  still  Fancy,  with  her  restless- 
ness and  weakness,still  Fancy-broken L  free .though, 
buoyed  up  by  a  comforting  secret.  Things  happei 
deep  down  within  us. 

She  dressed  quietly  and  went  out. 


276  HEARTBEAT 

It  was  late  February,  and  there  was  a  faint  touch 
of  spring  in  the  air.  Crocuses  and  snowdrops  were 
already  raising  their  modest  heads  in  neighbouring 
gardens.  She  drifted  idly  down  the  streets,  and  her 
limbs  responded  to  the  movement.  She  reached 
'Hyde  Park,  and  sat  upon  a  seat,  the  opposite  end 
of  which  was  occupied  by  a  blotchy-faced  woman 
fast  asleep.  Sparrows  quarrelled  amongst  the  beds. 
Suddenly  her  heart  was  touched  with  pity  as  she  re- 
garded the  blotchy-faced  one — down  and  out,  old 
and  finished.  But,  after  all,  wasn't  she  the  same? 
Down  and  out — yes,  but  not  yet  old  or  blotchy.  She 
had  her  youth.  Nothing  was  left  her  but  her  youth. 
Well,  was  youth  a  thing  to  be  idly  disregarded? 
Free :  she  was  free,  not  a  responsibility  in  the  world. 
A  curious  thing,  freedom,  the  possession  only  of 
irresponsible  people.  Decent  people  weren't  free. 
They  were  tied  hand  and  foot.  Something  inspiring, 
though,  about  freedom.  After  all,  one  might  as  well 
go  on  living. 

She  ambled  back  to  the  rooms  in  Netting  Hill,  and 
found  Isabel  making  tea,  and  looking  anxious.  Bar- 
bara gave  her  the  first  smile  for  three  days. 

"I've  been  for  a  walk,  old  girl." 

"Oh!  are  you  feeling  better,  Fancy?" 

"Yes.    I  shall  be  all  right." 

"I  do  wish  we  could  afford  to  send  you  away  for  a 
bit." 

Poor  Isabel!  she  had  not  yet  received  her  first 
week's  money! 

"It  isn't  necessary,  darling.    It's  work  I  want." 

"Will  you  go  back  toithat  pearl-stringing?" 

"Oh,  I  expect  so." 


DIASTOLE  277 

But  she  did  not  go  back  to  the  pearl-stringing. 
She  felt  that  the  association  of  that  room  with  Mrs. 
Myrtle  and  her  tragic  connection  would  be  too  much. 
She  idled  the  days  away.  Her  health  became  nor- 
mal. But  she  was  hungry,  hungry  for  the  good 
things.  She  wanted  to  dine  out,  and  they  had  no 
money.  ''It's  in  my  blood,"  she  thought.  "It's  like 
Isabel  said,  'If  you've  ever  been  kissed  prop- 
erly  '  I  shall  never  be  able  to  work,  not  this  or- 
dinary, drudging  kind  of  work  that  decent  people 
do." 

On  the  night  when  Isabel  got  her  salary  they 
spent  a  third  of  it  within  an  hour  on  a  carouse.  Dur- 
ing the  height  of  it  Barbara  reflected: 

"Who  was  it  I  kept  saying  I  was  not  free  tot 
I  am  free — I  am  free." 

She  parted  with  Isabel  at  the  stage  door.  Then 
she  took  a  bus  to  Piccadilly  and  walked  bnsky 
through  St.  James'  Square.  She  found  the  flat  oc- 
cupied by  Theodore  Moffatt.  The  clean  young  ani- 
mal was  dressing.  He  had  dined  in  the  City  and 
was  going  to  a  dance.  A  man  showed  her  into  his 
sitting-room  In  a  few  minutes  he  appeared  look- 
ing rather  handsome  and  astonished.  He  cried  out: 

"Hullo,  Betty"-she  had  told  him  that  her  name 
was  Betty  Broadhurst-"  This  is  a  delightful  and 
unexpected  surprise. ' ' 

Barbara  stood  a-quiver  on  the  hearthrug  her 
immobile,  but  her  bosom  heaving  rapid 

qt You  said  once  that  a  bargain  was  a  bargain,  a 
deal  a  deal;  and  that  if  I  came  to  you- 


278  HEARTBEAT 

Moffatt  was  even  more  astonished,  too  astonished 
to  rush  the  position.  He  replied  questioningly : 

"You  would  like  me  to — help  you  in  some  way? 
Come,  tell  me " 

"I'm  hard  up  and  desperate.  Yes,  I  want  you  to 
help  me." 

"All  right,  old  girl.  Come  now,  sit  down;  let's 
talk  about  it.  Have  a  drink." 

She  sat  on  the  Chesterfield,  and  he  poured  out 
two  drinks.  They  silently  consumed  them,  as  if  in 
need  of  encouragement  for  the  crisis  to  follow.  Yes, 
there  was  a  touch  of  the  gentleman  and  the  sports- 
man about  this  man.  She  could  believe  that  he  had 
never — taken  advantage  of  a  friend  or  an  enemy. 
Suddenly  she  broke  out  with : 

"You  understand,  Mr.  Moffatt,  I'm  not — one  of 
those  women,  don't  you?  Neither  I  nor  my  friend. 
Only  I'm  desperate.  I  shall  soon  be  hungry  and — 
one  might  as  well  go  on  living.  When  you  spoke  to 
me  I  was  not  free.  Now  I  am  free.  I  haven't  a 
shred  of  responsibility  in  the  world — and  very  little 
conscience,  I'm  afraid " 

The  significance  of  her  visit  was  now  clearly  pat- 
ent to  him.  The  good  fortune  almost  tongue-tied 
him.  He  whispered : 

"You  mean  to  say  that  if  I  help  you,  you " 

"A  bargain's  a  bargain.  A  deal's  a  deal.  I'm 
not  going  to  take  your  money  for  nothing.  Only  one 
thing — if  I  remain  straight  with  you,  you  must  prom- 
ise to  remain  straight  with  me. ' ' 

Very  solemnly  he  repeated:  "I'll  remain  straight 
with  you.  I  promise." 


DIASTOLE  279 

He  went  to  take  her  in  his  arms,  but  she  repulsed 
him  gently. 

''Not  yet,  man  Listen  to  me.  I  want  to  talk 
first,  fairly  and  squarely  as  one  human  being  to 
another.  A  bargain's  a  bargain,  a  deal's  a  deal. 
You  will  keep  me  in  comfort  and  make  me  an  allow- 
ance, eh?" 

"Yes,  yes." 

"I  want  something  more  from  you  than  that.  I 
shall  be  a  kept  woman,  old  boy.  Is  it  possible  to 
make  it  a  reasonably  decent  life!  Come,  you  are 
acting  dishonourably  in  keeping  me.  I  ani  acting 
dishonourably  in  coming  to  you.  We  are  both  pretty 
low  down ;  but  don't  let  us  sink  altogether.  We  min- 
gle our  virtues  and  our  vices.  I  know  myself  pretty 
well  now.  I'm  a  miserable  compromise.  I  can 
neither  be  entirely  virtuous,  nor  entirely  vicious.  I 
have  made  myself  like  that.  There  are  a  lot  of 
women  like  me.  But  I  don't  want  to  sit  around  in 
this  flat,  idling  and  drinking  and  smoking,  waiting 
for  you  to  turn  up  and  demand  your  rights.  I  want 
some  sort  of  companionship.  I  want  work,  and  in- 
terests, and  distractions." 

"You  shall  have  all  that,  Betty.  I  also  am  not  all 
Cither  virtuous  or  vicious." 

"My  name  isn't  Betty.  It's  Fancy  Telling.  I 
-was  an  actress,  but  that's  all  over.  We've  got  to 
be  dead  straight  with  each  other.  I  hate  these 
women  of  the  demi-monde,  not  because  they're 
vicious — usually  they're  not— but  because  they're 
damned  le~  The  people  I  like  are  the  kind  of 
people  you  meet  lunching  in  an  A.  B.  C.,  little  clerks 
and  typists,  with  ordered  lives  and  an  eager  intent- 


280  HEARTBEAT 

ness  in  all  kinds  of  insignificant  things,  walking 
about  in  the  sun  after  a  cup  of  coffee,  lookng  in  the 
shop  windows — ripping ! ' ' 

"You're  a  queer  girl,  Fancy.  If  you  feel  like 
that  why  don't  you  go  and  get  a  job-— I  could  get 
you  a  job — instead  of  coming  to  me?" 

"Because  I'm  Fancy  Telling.  I  can  see  it  all,  but 
I  can't  do  it,  if  you  know  what  I  mean.  I  should 
break  out  one  day  and  destroy  the  whole  thing.  I 
altered  Barbara  Powerscourt,  but  I  can't  alter 
Fancy  Telling.  You  can  alter  what  you  are,  but  you 
can't  alter  what  you  make  yourself.  I've  made  my- 
self that.  Crudely  speaking,  you  want  me  for  cer- 
tain animal  satisfactions.  Perhaps  I'm  the  same. 
I  shall  never  love  you.  I  shall  never  love  anyone 
again " 

She  walked  to  the  window  and  listened  to  the  dis- 
tant roar  of  traffic.  Suddenly  she  remarked : 

"I  like  to  have  things  straightforward.  Doesn't 
it  seem  queer!  There's  you  and  I  making  our  bar- 
gain here  quite  decently  together,  with  London  roar- 
ing all  around  us.  If  they  knew,  they  would — I 
don't  know  what  they'd  do.  They'd  certainly  say 
we  were  very  wicked.  They  have  to  have  labels  for 
everything.  And  yet  they're  all  very  much  the 
same.  London  is  a  kind  of  clearing-house  of  the 
emotions.  Some  belong  to  one  company,  some  to 
another,  and  they  have  to  be  sifted,  and  sorted,  and 
labelled.  But  underneath  it  all — lies  the  great  pity. ' ' 

' '  By  gum,  you  're  a  strange  kid !  There 's  only  one 
thing  I'm  frightened  about." 

"What's  that?" 

"I'll  get  too  fond  of  you." 


DIASTOLE  281 

"Do  you  love  your  wife?" 

"In  a  way — yes." 

"Why  do  you  do  this,  then?" 

"You're  candid  with  me.  I'll  be  candid  with  you. 
The  kind  of  thing— you  and  I — the  reason  why 
you're  here,  I  mean — that  kind  of  thing  bores  her. 
I  don't  believe  she'd  even  mind  very  much  if  she 
knew— about  you.  I'm  made  differently.  That's 
all." 

"But  if  you  fell  in  love  with  me?" 

"Golly!    There 'd  be  hell!" 

"Then  you  mustn't.    Another  point,  friend." 

"What's  that?" 

"No  children." 

"I  should  be  as  anxious  as  you  that  that  shouldn't 
happen." 

He  went  across  to  her  and  passionately  put  his 
arms  around  her  shoulders. 

"Is  it  a  bargain,  then?" 

"Yes." 

"Fancy,  I'm  not  going  to  that  dance  to-night." 

XV. 

AND  so  she  went  to  live  with  Theodore  Moffat,  and 
within  the  limit  of  their  code  he  played  straight  with 
her,  and  she  played  straight  with  him. 

"One  day  he'll  tire  of  me,"  she  thought.    "Well, 
,  when  that  day  comes  I  shall  look  out  for  another 
if  I'm  not  too  old." 

Old  age!  No,  she  didn't  fear  old  age.  Nature 
has  a  way  of  forcing  us  to  adapt  ourselves.  And 


282  HEARTBEAT 

when  everything  has  been  given,  and  everything 
taken  away. 

She  was  quite  happy  in  the  young  man's  flat,  sing- 
ing quietly  as  she  went  about  her  duties.  If  the  day 
was  cold  or  wet  there  was  always  the  morrow  when 
the  sun  would  shine,  the  busy  streets,  people  hurry- 
ing hither  and  thither.  Dear  people! — every  face 
with  a  different  story  to  tell ;  music  stealing  through 
open  doorways,  glitter  and  movement,  pity  and 
pathos,  and  that  almost  unbelievable  courage.  A 
long  way  ahead  it  would  all  come  right — "the  pity 
which  remains. "  Isabel  would  come  to  tea.  She 
would  come  up  the  stairs,  puffing,  sloppy,  and  a  little 
bewildered. 

•    "  Fancy,  you  beat  me,  darling.    I  never  thought 
,you'ddothis!" 

Darling  Isabel ! 

She  was  not  frightened.  She  went  to  South  Ken- 
sington Museum  and  made  a  real  study  of  old  lace 
this  time.  She  started  making  lace.  She  kept  ac- 
counts. She  mended  the  poor  man's  linen,  darned 
his  socks,  ministered  to  his  wants,  read  a  little — 
" Shibboleths,"  eh! 

A  long  way  ahead  .  .  . 

THE  END, 


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